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Anacreontics, CCCXLVII. - (Paraphrase.)


HAPPY little creature!

For I think you such,

Clinging in the tree-tops,

Twigs within your clutch;

Now a dew-drop sipping;

Now leave off, and sing,

Pouring forth shrill whistles,

O, how like a king!

All the fields you gaze on,

These for you exist;

Yours the season's bringings.

Whatsoe'er you list.

You the farmer's darling,

Naught from him you take;

Welcomed by all mortals,

Summer sweet you make.

And the Muses love you;

Phoebus to you plays,

Who at first endowed you

With your silver lays.

Age's pains ne'er fret you,

Young, yet still so wise;

Earth it was that bore you,

Songs of her you prize.

Fearless little stoic,

That winces not with pains,

Bones but taken from you,

Little else remains.

Blessed, sure, in all things,

Fortune's Love, I deem;

Lucky little creature!

Quite a god you seem.

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