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How long, great poet, shall thy sacred lays
Prevailing warmth has still thy mind possest,
Thy copy casts a fairer light on all,
Now Ovid boasts th' advantage of thy song,
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 natures try'd. Then will thy Ovid, thus transform’d, reveal A nobler change than he himself can tell.