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Should Hag and Gray-Beard make fuch tender 2
moan, Faith you'd e'en truft 'em to chemselves alone, ( And cry let's go, here's nothing to be done. Since Love's our Business, as 'tis your Delight, The Loung, who best can practise, beft can write. What though he be not come to his full Pow's, He's mending and improving every hour. You fly She-Jockies of the Box and Fit, Are pleas'd to find a hot unbroken Wit, By management he may in time be made, But there's no hopes of an old batter'd Jade ; Faint and unnery'd he runs into a Sweat, And always fails you at the Second Heat.
From whom our present Peace we expect increas'd,