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Then, Virtue, to the helm repair,

Thou, Innocence, fhalt guide the oar;
Now rage, ye winds ! storms, rend the air!

My bark, thus mann'd, shall gain the shore.




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'HE glories of our birth and state,

Are Madows, not subftantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hands on kings:

Scepter and crown

Mult tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still,

Early or late

They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murm’ring breath,
When the pale captive creeps to death.

* These fine moral Atanzas were originally intended for a solemn fue Meral fong in “ The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses.” It is said to have been a favourite song with King Charles II. PERCY. I. 270.


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The laurel witbers on your brow,

Then boaft Do more your migbry deeds,
Upon Deaths purple altar now
See where the victor viain bleeds;

All beads must come

To the cold tomb:
Only the adions of the juft
Smell sweet, and blossom in the duit



OR on beds of fading flowers,

Shedding soon their gawdy pride Nor with (wains in Syren bowers

Will true pleasure long reside.

On aweful Virtues hill sublime,

Enthroned fits th' immortal fair ;
Who wins her height must patient climb,

The lteps are peril, toil, and care.

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* In the Masque of Comus.-- It seems to be imitated from a passage in the 17th bouk of Talius Jerusalem.



HAT frenzy muft his soul possess,

Whose hopes on evil deeds depend !
For though the wicked meet success,

Yet peace can ne'er their steps attend.


For ev'n in lifes serenest state,

Shall Vice receive her secret fting; As Virtue, though depress’d by fate,

Herself her own reward fall bring.





O tinkling brooks, to twilight shades,

To desert prospects rough and rude,
With youthful rapture first I ran,

Enamour'd of sweet solitude.
On beauty next I wondering gaz’d,

Too soon my supple heart was caught:
An eye, a breast, a lip, a shape,

Was all I talk'd of, all I thought.
Next, by the smiling Muses led,

On Pindus laureld top I dream,
Talk with old bards, and listening hear
The warbles of th' inchanting stream.

* In the opera of Hypsipile.


Then Harmony and Picture came

Twin-nymphs my sense to entertain, By turns my eye, my ear was caught,

With Raphaels strokes and Handels ftrain.

At laft, such various pleasures prov'd,

All cloying, vain, unmanly found, Sweet for a time as morning dew,

Yet parents of some painful wound.

Humbly I ask'd great Wisdoms aid,

To true delight to lead my feet: When thus the goddess whispering said,

“ Virtue alone is bliss complete.”

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VOME, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we muft

In your holiday suits, with your laffes appear :
The happiest of folk are the guiltless and free,
And who are so guiltless, so happy as we?

We harbour no passions, by luxury taught,
We practise no arts, with hypocrisy fraught;
What we think in our hearts, you may read in our eyes ;
For knowing no falsehood, we need no disguise.

Sung by a Shepherdess, at the Sheep-fhearing in Florizel and Perdita.


By mode and caprice are the city dames led,
But we, as the children of nature are bred ;
By her hand alone, we are painted, and drefe'd ;
For the roses will bloom, when there's peace in the break,

That giant Ambition we never can dread,
Our roofs are too low for so lofty a head;
Content and sweet Chearfulness open our door,
They smile with the simple, and feed with the poor.

When love has poffefs'd us, that love we reveal;
Like the flocks that we feed are the passions we feel :
So harmless and simple we sport, and we play,
And leave to fine folks to deceive and betray.

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