IV.

But find at length, with Pains arriv'd,

Its tempting Glory ceas'd; By defart Barrenness convinc'd The Distance only pleas'd.

V.

Thus our o'er-heated Fancies rove

In all Affairs of Life;

Her, whom a Mistress we adore,

We nauseate when a Wife.

VI.

I'll, to be happy, be content,
Nor break with Care my Sleeps;

Blifs, like a Shadow, run or ftand,

The felf-fame Distance keeps.

S

The PENITEN T.

I.

Ilent and lonesome while I lie,

To my fick Bed confin'd;

My Follies past, my num'rous Sins

Rife dreadful in my Mind.

II.

In vain I turn from Side to Side,

To gain my Body Eafe;

In vain folicit every Thought,

To calm my Soul to Peace.

III.

No Peace the Wicked fhall enjoy ;

(So God's fix'd Will ordains)

But He who tastes the Sweets of Sin,
Shall groan beneath its Pains.

IV. Earn

IV.

Earnest for Pity now I cry,

Awaken'd by my Smart :

Reproachful Shame confounds my Soul,
And Anguish rends my Heart.

V.

But oh! will God regard my Tears,
The Fruit of Guilt and Fear?

Me, who his Juftice have provok'd,
Oh! will his Mercy spare?

VI.

Yes; for the broken contrite Heart

My Saviour's Suff'rings plead:

He will not quench the fmoaking Flax,
Nor break the bruised Reed.

VII.

Ev'n here I feel his gracious Hand;

Tis He, feverely kind,

With Sickness bows my Body down,

To raise my finking Mind.

VIII.

Thy poor unworthy Servant view,

Refign'd to thy Decree;

Ordain me or to live or die,

But live or die in Thee.

IX.

Upon thy gracious Promife, Lord,

My humbled Soul is caft;

Thou❜lt bear me fafe thro' Life, thro' Death,

And raise me up at last.

X.

Low as this mortal Frame must lie,

This mortal Frame fhall fing,

Where is thy Victory, O Grave?

And where, O Death, thy Sting?

To

To Sir HERBERT POWELL, Bart.

Upon his going to Travel.

N Friendly Part a well-meant Gift receive,

IN

The best, tho' small, that I have Pow'r to give;

Boldly without Reluctance lend an Ear,

Nor flatt'ring Verfe, nor Dedication fear,
Which only tells us what we guess'd before,
How rich the Patron, and the Bard how poor.
If wifely covetous of pretious Time,

If not

You dread the long Impertinence of Rhyme,
Thefe Lines with Patience may be over-paft,
My first, and what is more, perhaps my last.
From all fuch Danger fhortly You'll be free,
on this fide, yet, beyond the Sea.
Religion first be made Your utmost Care,
Nor drop Your native Faith in foreign Air:
Nor, like the flutt'ring Triflers of the Town,
Go forth with little, and come back with none.
Mother