Summer sweet you make.
And the Muses love you;
Phoebus to you plays,
Who at first endowed you
With your silver lays.
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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.