Poem by Thomas Gent

To a Fly, on the Bosom of Chloe, While Sleeping

Come away, come away, little fly!
  Don't disturb the sweet calm of love's nest:
If you do, I protest you shall die,
  And your tomb be that beautiful breast.

Don't tickle the girl in her sleep,
  Don't cause so much beauty to sigh;
If she frown, all the Graces will weep;
  If she weep, half the Graces will die.

Pretty fly! do not tickle her so;
  How delighted to teaze her you seem;
Titillation is dangerous, I know,
  And may cause the dear creature to dream.

She may dream of some horrible brute,
  Of some genii, or fairy-built spot;
Or perhaps the prohibited fruit,
  Or perhaps of––I cannot tell what.

Now she 'wakes! steal a kiss and begone;
  Life is precious; away, little fly!
Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn,
  You'll meet death from the glance of her eye.

Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to say
  How I felt, as the flutt'rer I chid;
I should own, as I drove it away,
  I wish'd to be there in it's stead.

1. Henry and Eliza
2. Lines, Written on the Sixth of September
3. When the Rough Storm Roars Round the Peasant's Cot
4. Night
5. To ––––

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