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Go to I will not hear of it-To-morrow!

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'Tis a fharper, who stakes his penury

plenty who takes thy ready cash,

Against thy plenty
And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and promises,
The currency of ideots. Injurious bankrupt,
That gulls the easy creditor!-To-morrow!
It is a period no where to be found.

In all the hoary registers of Time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calendar.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds fociety
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of fuch stuff as dreams are; and baseless
As the fantastic vifions of the evening.

But foft, my friend-arreft the prefent moments;
For be affur'd, they all are arrant tell-tales;

And though their flight be filent, and their path
Trackless, as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to heav'n, and there record thy folly.
Because, though station'd on th' important watch,
Thou, like a fleeping, faithlefs centinel,
Didft let them pafs unnotic'd, unimprov❜d.
And know, for that thou flumber'dft on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar

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For every fugitive: and when thou thus
Shalt ftand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd Juftice, who fhall tell thy audit!
Then stay the prefent inftant, dear Horatio;
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings.
'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.
Oh! let it not elude thy grafp, but like
The good old patriarch upon record,
Hold the fleet angel faft, until he bless thee.

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By the Same.


T puzzles much the fages' brains,
Where Eden ftood of yore;

Some place it in Arabia's plains,

Some fay, it is no more.

But Cobham can these tales confute,
As all the curious know;
For he has prov'd beyond difpute,
That paradife is Srow.


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To a Child of Five Years old.

By the Same.


AIREST flow'r, all flow'rs excelling,
Which in Eden's garden grew;
Flow'rs of Eve's imbower'd dwelling",
Are, my Fair-one, types of you.
Mark, my Polly, how the roses

Emulate thy damask cheek; How the bud its fweets discloses, Buds thy opening bloom bespeak. Lilies are, by plain direction,

Emblems of a double kind;
Emblems of thy fair complexion,

Emblems of thy fairer mind.
But, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty
Bloffom, fade, and die away;

Then pursue good fenfe and duty,
Evergreens, that ne'er decay.

Alluding to Milton's defcription of Eve's bower.



Father FRANCIS's Prayer.

Written in Lord WESTMORLAND'S Hermitage.


E gay attire, ne marble hall,

Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall;
Ne cook of Fraunce, ne dainty board,
Beftow'd with pypes of perigord;
Ne power, ne fuch like idle fancies,
Sweet Agnes grant to father Francis ;
Let me ne more myself deceive;
Ne more regret the toys I leave;
The world I quit, the proud, the vain,
Corruption's and Ambition's train;
But not the good, perdie nor fair,
'Gainst them I make ne vow, ne pray'r;
But fuch aye welcome to my cell,

And oft, not always, with me dwell;
Then caft, sweet Saint, a circle round,
And blefs from fools this holy ground;
From all the foes to worth and truth,
From wanton old, and homely youth;


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The gravely dull, and pertly gay,
Oh banish these; and be my fay,
Right well I ween that in this age,
Mine house shall prove an hermitage.

An Inscription on the Cell.
Beneath these mofs-grown roots, this ruftic cell,
Truth, Liberty, Content, fequefter'd dwell;
Say you, who dare our hermitage difdain,
What drawing-room can boaft fo fair a train?

An Inscription in the Cell.
Sweet bird that fing'ft on yonder spray,
Pursue unharm'd thy fylvan lay;
While I beneath this breezy fhade,
In peace repose my careless head;
And joining thy enraptur'd fong,
Inftruct the world-enamour'd throng,
That the contented harmless breast

In folitude itself is bleft.

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