Once as I fat in pensive fit,
To meditate a song,
The muse address'd me thus, Thy wit
Forbids thy life be long.

Nature alike is just to all
Their share of good to give;
To whom such early talents fall
Have seldom long to live.

But think not it shall be thy lot
A vulgar death to die;
No—fate decrees thee to be shot
With darts from Delia's eye.