In Imitation Of Horace

What mean those amorous curls of jet?
 For what heart-ravish'd maid
Dost thou thy hair in order set,
 Thy wanton tresses braid?
And thy vast stores of beauties open lay,
That the deluded fancy leads astray?

For pity hide thy starry eyes,
 Whose languishments destroy;
And look not on the slave that dies
 With an excess of joy.
Defend thy coral lips, thy amber breath;
To taste these sweets, alas!  is certain death.