238 THE POEMS OF ANNE �^ALOUSIE IS THE RAGE OF A MAN �Whilst with his falling wings, the courtly Dove Sweeps the low earth, and singles out his Love, Now murmurs soft, then with a rowling note Extends his crop, and fills his am'rous throate, On ev'ry side accosts the charming Fair, Turns round, and bows with an inticing ayre, She, carelessly neglecting all his pain, Or shifts her ground, or pecks the scatter'd grain. But if he cease, and through the flight wou'd range, (For though renown'd for truth, e'vn Doves will change) The mildnesse of her nature laid aside, The seeming coldnesse, and the carelesse pride, On the next Rival, in a rage she flies; Smooth, ev'ry clinging plume, with anger lies, Employs in feeble fight her tender beck, And shakes the Favrites, parti-cqlour'd neck. Thus, jealousy, through ev'ry species moves; And if so furious, in the gallesse Doves, No wonder, that th' experienc'd Hebrew sage, Of Man, pronounc'd itt the extremest Rage. �ALL IS VANITY ���How vain is Life! which rightly we compare �To flying Posts, that haste away ; To Plants, that fade with the declining Day; �To Clouds, that sail amidst the yielding Air; Till by Extention into that they flow, �Or, scatt'ring on the World below, Are lost and gone, ere we can say they were; �To Autumn- Leaves, which every Wind can chace; ��� �
