Or roll the Planets thro' the boundleſs Sky.
Some leſs refin'd, beneath the Moon's pale Light
Hover, and catch the ſhooting Stars by Night;
Or ſuck the Miſts in groſſer Air below,
Or dip their Pinions in the painted Bow,
Or brew fierce Tempeſts on the wintry Main,
Or o'er the Glebe diſtill the kindly Rain.
Others on Earth o'er human Race preſide,
Watch all their Ways, and all their Actions guide:
Of these the Chief the Care of Nations own,
And guard with Arms Divine the Britiſh Throne.
Not a leſs pleaſing, tho' leſs glorious Care.
To ſave the Powder from too rude a Gale,
Nor let th' impriſon'd Eſſences exhale,
To draw freſh Colours from the vernal Flow'rs,
To ſteal from Rainbows ere they drop in Show'rs
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The RAPE of the LOCK.