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Far remote and retir'd from the noise of the town,
I'll exchange my brocade for a plain ruslet gown;

My friends shall be few

But well chosen and true,
And sweet recreation our evening shall crown.
With a rural repast, a rich banquet for me,
On a moffy green turf, near some shady old tree;

The rivers clear brink,

Shall afford me my drink,
And Temp'rance my friendly physician fhall be.
Ever calm and serene, with contentment ftill blest,
Not too giddy with joy, or with forrow depreft,

I'll neither invoke,

Or repine at Deaths stroke,
But retire from the world, as I would to my rest.

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PRING

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 ;
Each grief a second does invite,
And sorrows are each others heirs.

H 3

For

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BY DR. HENRY KING, BISHOP OF CHICHESTER.

WH

THAT is th’existence of mans life?

Bat open war, or slumber'd Arife,
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements :
And never fee's a perfect peace
Till Deaths cold hand ligns his release.

It is a form where the hot blood
Out-vies in rage the boiling flood;
And each loud passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,
Which bears his bark with many a wave
Till he casts anchor in the grave.

It is a flower which buds and grows,
And withers as the leaves disclose ;
Whose Spring and fall faint seasons keep,
Like fits of waking before sleep:
Then shrinks into that fatal mold,
Where its first being was enrolld,

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It is a dream, whose seeming truth
Is moralis'd in age and youth :
Where all the comforts he can share
As wand'ring as his fancies are ;
Till in a mift of dark decay
The dreamer vanish quite away.
It is a dial which points out
The sun-set as it moves about:
And shadows out in lines of night
The subtile stages of Times flight,
Till all obscuring earth hath laid
The body in eternal shade.
It is a weary interlude
Which doth short joys, long woes include.
The world the stage, the prologue tears,
The acts vain hope, and varied fears ;
The scene shuts up with loss of breath,
And leaves no epilogue but Death.

SONG XXI.
BY MR. GEORGE LILLO. *

TH

HE sweet and blushing rose

Soon withers and decays.
Short are the joys life knows,

And few our happy days,
The fairest day must set in night ;

Summer in winter ends;
So anguish ftill succeeds delight,
And grief on joy attends.
* In Sylvia, or the Country Burial.

H4

SONG

SONG XXII.

BY MR. ROBERT DODSLEY.

MAN

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. *

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Say! what is that thing call'd light,

Which I must ne'er enjoy,
What are the blessings of the fight,

O tell your poor blind boy !

You talk of wond'rous things you see,

You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he

Or make it day or night.

• Written for, and set by the celebrated mr. Scanlcy, organist of St. Andrews, Holborno

My

My day or night myself I make,

Whene'er I sleep or play
And could I ever keep awake

With me 'twere always day.

With heavy fighs I often hear,

You mourn my hapless woe ;
But sure with patience I can bear

A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have

My chear of mind destroy ;
Whilst thus I fing, I am a king,

Although a poor blind boy.

SONG XXIV.

WELCOME, welcome, brother debtor,

To this poor but merry place,
Where no bailif, dun, nor setter,

Dares to show his frightful face :
But, kind sir, as you're a stranger,

Down your garnish you must lay,
Or your coat will be in danger;

You muft either strip or pay.

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