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Far remote and retir'd from the noise of the town,
My friends shall be few
But well chosen and true,
The rivers clear brink,
Shall afford me my drink,
I'll neither invoke,
Or repine at Deaths stroke,
RINCES that rule, and empire sway,
How transitory is their state ! Sorrows the glories do allay,
And richest crowns have greatest weight.
The mighty monarch treason fears,
Ambitious thoughts within him rave; His life all discontents and cares;
And he at best is but a flave.
Vainly we think with fond delight
To cease the burden of our cares ;
BY DR. HENRY KING, BISHOP OF CHICHESTER.
THAT is th’existence of mans life?
Bat open war, or slumber'd Arife,
It is a form where the hot blood
It is a flower which buds and grows,
It is a dream, whose seeming truth
HE sweet and blushing rose
Soon withers and decays.
And few our happy days,
Summer in winter ends;
BY MR. ROBERT DODSLEY.
AN’s a poor deluded bubble,
Wand'ring in a mitt of lies, Seeing false, or seeing double,
Who would trust to such weak eyes ?
Yet presuming on his senses,
On he goes most wondrous wise : Doubts of truth, believes pretences ;
Loft in error, lives and dies.
SON G XXIII.
THE BLIND BOY.
BY COLLEY CIB BER ESQ. *
Say! what is that thing call'd light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy,
O tell your poor blind boy !
You talk of wond'rous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
Or make it day or night.
• Written for, and set by the celebrated mr. Scanlcy, organist of St. Andrews, Holborno
My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy fighs I often hear,
You mourn my hapless woe ;
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My chear of mind destroy ;
Although a poor blind boy.
WELCOME, welcome, brother debtor,
To this poor but merry place,
Dares to show his frightful face :
Down your garnish you must lay,
You muft either strip or pay.