To the Same Young Lady, Upon My Finding Queen Anne's Guineas in My Snuff-Box

EX Tempore .

Now I'm convinc'd, what Bards of old have sung,
The World from Harmony , and Numbers sprung.
The mighty Hand , that bid the well-tun'd Spheres ,
In Time and Consort measure out the Years ,
Did, from their Chaos , scatter'd Attoms call,
Just touch'd the Dust , and form'd the World 's great Ball .

So fair Eliza , who to silent Wyre ,
Can Consort give, and tuneful Notes inspire;
With the same Fingers , if she please, can mold ,
And make rude Attoms burnish into Gold .
The yellow Powder , when H ER Fingers press,
Assume both Lustre , and Great A NNA'S Face.
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