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Though certain pains attend the cares of state,
A good man owes his country to be great ;
Should act abroad the high distinguish'd part,
Or shew at least the purpose of his heart.
With thoughts like these the shining courts you seek;
Full of new projects for almost a week:
You then despise the tinsel glittering snare ;
Think vile mankind below a serious care.
Life is too short for any diftant aim ;
And cold the dull reward of future fame :
Be happy then while yet you have to live;
And love is all the blessing heav'n can give.
Fir'd by new pallion you address the fair ; ;
Survey the opera as a gay parterre :
Young Cloe's bloom had made you certain prize,
But for a fide-long glance from Celia's eyes :
Your beating heart acknowledges her power ;
Your eager eyes her lovely form devour;
You feel the poison swelling in your breaft,
And all your soul by fond defire possess'd.
In dying fighs a long three hours are past ;
To some assembly with impatient haste,
With trembling hope, and doubtful fear you move,
Resolv'd to tempt your fate, and own your love:
But there Belinda meets you on the stairs,
Easy her shape, attracting all her airs;
A smile she gives, and with a smile can wound;
Her melting voice has music in the sound; :


Her every


motion wears refiftless

grace ;
Wic in her mien, and p'easure in her face :
Here while you vow eternity of love,
Cloe and Celia unregarded move.

Thus on the sands of Afric's burning plains,
However deeply made, no long impress remains ;
The lightest leaf can leave its figure there;
The strongest form is scatter'd by the air.
So yielding the warm temper of your mind,
So touch'd by every eye, fo tofs'd by wind;
Oh! how unlike the heav'n my soul design'd!
Unseen, unheard, the throng around me move ;
Not wishing praise, insensible of love:
No whispers soften, nor no beauties fire ;
Careless I see the dance, and coldly hear the lyre.

So num'rous herds are driven o'er the rock;
No print is left of all the paliing flock:
So fings the wind around the solid stone :
So vainly beat the waves with fruitless moan.
Tedious the toil, and great the workman's care,
Who dare attempt to fix impressions there :
But should some swain more skilful than the rest,
Engrave his name upon this marble breast,
Not rolling ages could deface that name ;
Through all the storms of life 'tis still the fame :
Though length of years with mofs may fhade the ground,
Deep, though unseen, remains the secret wound.


To MARY, Queen of scoTS."

Design'd to be spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD.

By the Same.

WHAT cauld luxurious woman wish for more, ,

To fix her joys, or to extend her pow'r?

wish was in this Mary seen,
Gay, witty, youthful, beauteous, and a queen.
Vain useless blessings with ill conduct join'd!
Light as the air, and feeting as the wind.
Whatever poets write, and lovers vow,
Beauty, what poor omnipotence haft thou !

Queen Bess had wisdom, council, power, and laws;
How few espous'd a wretched beauty's cause !

• A play which the celebrated Philip Duke of Wharton conceived a design of writing, but never executed. Mr. Walpole says, no part of it remains but the following four lines :

“ Sure were I free and Norfolk were a prisoner,
“ I'd fy with more impatience to his arms
“ Than the poor Israelite gaz'd on the serpent,
4 When life was the reward of every look."
Catalogue of Royal Authors, vol. ii. p. 134.


Learn thence, ye fair, more solid charms to prize,
Conteon the idle flatt'rers of your eyes.
The brightest object fhines but while 'tis new;
That influence lessens by familiar view.
Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway,
All strive to serve, and glory to obey;
Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow-
Men mock the idol of their former vow.

Two great examples have been shown to-day,
To what sure ruin passion does betray ;
What long repentance to short joys is due ;
When reafon rules, what glory does ensue.

If you will love, love like Eliza then;
Love for'amusement, like those traitors men.
Think that the paftime of a leisure hour
She favour'd oft but never shar'd her pow'r.

The traveller by desart wolves pursu'd,
If by his art the savage foe's fubdu'd,
The world will still the noble act applaud,
Though victory was gain’d by needful fraud.

Such is, my tender sex, our helpless case ;
And such the barbarous heart, hid by the begging face.
By passion fir'd, and not withheld by shame,
They cruel hunters are ; we, trembling game.
Trust me, dear ladies, (for I know 'em well)
They burn to triumph, and they sigh to tell :
Cruel to them that yield, cullies to them that fell.



Believe me, 'tis by far the wiser course,
Superior art should meet superior force :
Hear, but be faithful to your interest ftill:
Secure your hearts--then fool with whom you will,

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Once again consult your toilette,

In the glass your face review :
So much weeping foon will spoil it,

And no spring your charms renew.

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