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How long, great poet, shall thy sacred lays
Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest,
Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy song, And tells his story in the British tongue; Thy charming verse, and fair translations, show How thy own laurel first began to grow; How wild Lycaon, chang'd by angry gods, And frighted at himself, ran howling through the woods.
O mayst thou still the noble task prolong, Nor age, nor sickness, interrupt thy song: Then may we wond'ring read, how human limbs Have water'd kingdoms, and dissolv'd in streams; Of those rich fruits that on the fertile mould Turn’d yellow by degrees, and ripen'd into gold; How some in feathers, or a ragged hide, Have liv'd a second life, and different nature's try'd. Then will thy Ovid, thus transform'd, reveal A nobler change than he himself can tell.
Mag. COLL. Oxon,
June 2, 1693.