 | Poems |  |
The Silkworm.
This Silk-worm (to long Sleep retir'd)
The early Year hath re-inspir'd,
Who now to pay to thee prepares
The Tribute of her pleasing cares;
And hastens with industrious toyl
To make thy Ornament her Spoyl:
See with what pain she spins for thee
The thread of her own Destinie,
Then growing proud in Death, to know
That all her curious Labours thou
Wilt, as in Triumph, deign to wear,
Retires to her soft Sepulchre.
The early Year hath re-inspir'd,
Who now to pay to thee prepares
The Tribute of her pleasing cares;
And hastens with industrious toyl
To make thy Ornament her Spoyl:
See with what pain she spins for thee
The thread of her own Destinie,
Then growing proud in Death, to know
That all her curious Labours thou
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Retires to her soft Sepulchre.
Such, Dearest, is that hapless State,
To which I am design'd by Fate,
Who by thee (willingly) o'recome,
Work mine own Fetters and my Tomb,
To which I am design'd by Fate,
Who by thee (willingly) o'recome,
Work mine own Fetters and my Tomb,
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