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Whether, fierce churning Boars! in Meads ye stray,
Or haunt the shady Mountain's devious Way;
Whet not your Tusks, my lov'd Cerinthus spare!
Know, Cupid! I consign him to your Care.
What Madness 'tis, shagg'd tractless Wilds to beat,
And wound, with pointed Thorns, your tender Feet:
O! why to savage Beasts your Charms oppose?
With Toils and Blood-hounds why their Haunts inclose?
The Lust of Game decoys you far away;
Ye Blood-hounds perish, and ye Toils decay!