Alas! what a folly, what wealth and domain
We heap up in fin and in forrow!

Immenfe is the toil, yet the labour how vain!
Is not life to be over to-morrow?

Then glide on my moments, the few that I have
Smooth-fhaded, and quiet, and even ;
While gently the body defcends to the grave,
And the fpirit arifes to heaven.

TO MR. DYER, BY CLI O*.

I

'VE done thy merit and my friendship wrong,

In holding back my gratitude fo long;
The foul is fure to equal tranfport rais'd,
That justly praises, or is juftly prais'd:
The generous only can this pleasure know,
Who tafte the god-like virtue-to bestow!
I ev'n grow rich, methinks, while I commend ;
And feel the very praises which I fend.
Nor jealoufy nor female envy find,
Though all the Mufes are to Dyer kind.

Sing on, nor let your modest fears retard,
Whofe verfe and pencil join, to force reward:
Your claim demands the bays, in double wreath,
Your Poems lighten, and your pictures breathe.
I wish to praise you, but your beauties wrong;
No theme looks green, in Clio's artless fong:

But

Among the Poems of Mr. Savage, is an Epiftle,

occafioned by Mr. Dyer's Picture of this Lady.

But yours will an eternal verdure wear,
For Dyer's fruitful foul will flourish there.
My humbler lot was in low distance laid;
I was, oh, hated thought! a woman made;
For houshold cares, and empty trifles meant,
The Name does immortality prevent.
Yet let me ftretch, beyond my fex, my mind,
And, rifing, leave the fluttering train behind;
Nor art, nor learning, wish'd affistance lends,
But nature, love, and music, are my friends..