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Oh! Art is but a scanty rill 
That genial seasons scarcely fill ; 
But Nature needs no tide’s return 
To fill afresh her flowing urn: 
| She gathers all her rich supplies, 
Where never-failing fountains rise. 

THE BEE AND THE LADY-FLOWER. 
As Julia once a slumbering lay, 
It chanced a Bee did fly that way, 
After a dew, or dew-like shower, 
To tipple freely in a flower. 
For some rich flower, he took the lip 
Of Julia, and began to sip; 
But when he felt, he sucked from thence 
Honey, and in the quintessence, 
nt, He drank so much he scarce could stir ; 
So Julia took the pilferer ; 
_And, thus surprised, as filchers use, 
He thus began to make excuse: 
Sweet Lapy-FLowER, I never brought 
Hither the least one thieving thought ; 
But taking these rare lips of yours 
For some fresh, fragrant, luscious flowers, 
I thought I might there take a taste, 
Where so much syrup ran to waste ;: 



