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And though they did profusely wealth bestow,
They gave thee the true use of wealth to know.
Could ev’n the nurse wish for her darling boy
A happiness which thou dost not enjoy :
What can her fond ambition ask beyond
A soul by wisdom's noblest precepts crown'd?
To this fair speech, and happy utterance join'd,
T' unlock the secret treasures of the mind,
And make the blessing common to mankind.
On these let health and reputation wait,
The favour of the virtuous and the great:
A table chearfully and cleanly spread,
Stranger alike to riot and to need :
Such an estate as no extremes may know,
A free and just disdain for all things else below,
Amidst uncertain hopes, and anxious cares,
Tumultuous strife, and miserable fears,
Prepare for all events thy constant breast,
And let each day be to thee as thy last.
That morning's dawn will with new pleasure rise,
Whose light shall unexpected bless thy eyes.
Me, when to town in winter you repair,
Battening in ease you 'll find, sleek, fresh, and fair;
Me, who have learn'd from Epicurus' lore,
To snatch the blessings of the flying hour,
Whom every Friday at the Vine * you 'll find
His true disciple, and yonr faithful friend,

* A Tavern in Long-Acre.



HILE rich in brightest red the blushing Rose

Her freshest opening beauties did disclose;
Her, the rough Thistle from a neighbouring field,
With fond desires and lover's


beheld :
Straight the fierce plant lays by his pointed darts,
And wooes the gentle flower with softer arts.
Kindly she heard, and did his flame approve,
And own'd the warrior worthy of her love.
Flora, whose happy laws the seasons guide,
Who does in fields and painted meads preside,
And crowns the gardens with their flowery pride,
With pleasure saw the wishing pair combine,
To favour what their Goddess did design,
And bid

them in eternal Union join.
Henceforth, he said, in each returning year,
One stem the Thistle and the Rose shall bear :
The Thistle's lasting grace, thou, O my Rose ! shalt be,
The warlike Thistle's arms, a sure defence to thee.


Ο Ν C Ο Ν Τ Ε Ν Τ Μ Ε Ν Τ.


TANY that once, by Fortune's bounty rear'd,

Haye wisely from those envy'd heights declin'd,
Have sunk to that just level of mankind,
Where nor too little nor too much gives the true
peace of mind,

ON * In his Meditationes Sacræ.





N that bless'd day, from every part, the just,

Rais'd from the liquid deep or mouldering dust,
The various products of Time’s fruitful womb,
All of past ages, present and to come,
In full assembly fhall at once resort,
And meet within high heaven's capacious court:
There famous names rever'd in days of old,
Our great forefathers there we shall behold,
From whom old stocks and ancestry began,
And worthily in long succession ran;
The reverend fires with pleasure shall we greet,
Attentive hear, while faithful they repeat
Full many a virtuous deed, and many a noble feat.
There all those tender ties, which here below,
Or kindred, or more sacred friendship know,
Firm, constant, and unchangeable fhall grow.
Refin'd from passion, and the dregs of sense,
A better, truer, dearer love from thence,
Its everlasting Being shall commence :
There, like their days, their joys shall ne'er be done,
No night shall rise, to shade heaven's glorious sun,
But one eternal holy-day go on.


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ESPAIRING beside a clear stream,

A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false nymph was his theme,

A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,

To his fighs with a figh did reply ;
And the brook, in return to his pain,

Ran mournfully murmuring by.

Alas, filly swain that I was !

Thus fadly complaining, he cry'd,
When first I beheld that fair face,

'Twere better by far I had dy'd.
She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue ;

When the smild, 'twas a pleasure too great.
I listend, and cry'd, when the sung,

Was nightingale ever so sweet?

How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,

To forsake the fine folk of the town?

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To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant would prove.;
Or go clad like our maidens in gray,

Or live in a cottage on love ?
What though I have skill to complain,

Though the Muses my temples have crown'd; What though, when they hear my soft strain,

The virgins fit weeping around, Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false-one inclines to a swain,

Whose music is sweeter than thine. And you, my companions so dear,

Who sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range,

'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly, 'Twas hers to be false and to change,

'Tis mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain,

In her breast any pity is found,
Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,

And see me laid low in the ground.
The last humble boon that I crave,

Is to shade me with cypress and yew ; And when she looks down on my grave, Let her own that her shepherd was true.


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