On a Fly, that flew into a Lady's Eye, and there lay buried in a Tear

About those Eyes, since I could move,
I flutter'd still, and flew,
And always to play there did Love,
Yet more despis'd than you.
I die each hour, yet all the ills I bear,
Ne'er made her shed for me a pitying […].

Yet 'twas her Pride I do believe,
Not pity, made thee fall,
Presumptuous Wretch! you could not live,
She Loves to ruine all.
Her Tyrant pleasure does no Laws obey,
She stoops, Domitian like, to any prey.

The patient Taper's sparkling light,
You might (Poor insect) view,
But ah! her Eyes shine much too bright
To be beheld by you.
The Daring Fool, burnt by the blazing Sun,
Fell, from a less attempt, with ruine, down.

By this, we see, deluded Flie,
Your high, Ambitious aim,
You, like the Phaenix, thought to die,
And perish in a Flame,
How different alas! your fate is found!
Strange! that you should amidst such Fires be drown'd!

Like Icarus, too high you flew,
And cut your yielding, trackless way,
Your Wings destroy'd by Sunbeams too,
You fell into a faithless Sea.
The Sun, I know, did often Flies beget,
But ne'er, till now, has it destroy'd them yet.

So sweetly here you rest,
So rich a Tomb you have,
And like an Epicure so blest,
All are not Stoicks in the Grave.
Your Death bids Lovers live prepar'd for theirs,
When so much Cruelty is found in Tears.