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The meagre-chop'd us'rer, who on hundreds

gets twenty, But ftarves in his wealth, and pines in his plenty, Lays up for a season he never, will fee, The year of one thousand nine hundred and three: He must change all his houses, his lands, and his

rents, For a worm-eaten coffin an hundred

years

hence.

The learned divine, with all his pretenfions To knowledge superior, and heavenly manfions ; Who lives by the tithe of other folks labour, Yet expects that his blessing be receiv'd as a favour; Tho'he talks of the spirit, and bewilders our sense, Know's not what will come of him an hundred

years hence,

The poet himself, who fo loftily fings, And scorns any subject but heroes or kings, Mult to the capricio of fortune submit, Which will make a fool of him, in spite of his wit; Thus health, wealth and beauty, wit, learning

and fenfe, Muft all come to nothing an hundred years

hence.

Why should we turmoil then in cares and in

fears, By converting our joys into fighs and to tears? Since pleasures abound, let us ever be tasting, And drive away forrow, while vigour is lasting,

We'll kiss the brilk damsels, that we may from

thence Have brats to succeed us an hundred

years

hence.

The true kearted mason, who acts on the square, And lives within compass, by rules that are fair; Whilft honour and conscience, approve all his

deeds, As virtue and prudence directs, he proceeds, With friendship and love, discretion and sense, Leaves a pattern for brothers, an hundred years

hence.

SONG 108.

HODGE of the Mill, and buxom Nell. YOUNG Roger of the mill,

One morning very soon, Put on his belt apparel,

New hore and clouted shoon :
And he a-wooing came

To bonny buxom Nell,
Dear lass, cries he, cou’dst fancy me!

I like thee wondrous well.

My horses I have dress’d,

And gi'en them corn and hay,

Put on my best åpparel;

And having come this way, Let's fit and chat a while

With thee, my bonny Nell: Dear lass, cries he, cou’dft fancy me,

l'fe like thy person well.

Young Roger, you're mistaken,

The damsel then reply'd, I'm not in such a haste,

To be a ploughman's bride:
Know I then live in hopes

To marry a farmer's fon;
If it be fo, fays Hodge, I'll go,

Sweet mistress I have done.

Your horses you

have dress’d, Good Hodge, I heard you say, Put on your best apparel,

And being come this way ;
Come sit and chat a while.

"O! no indeed, not I,
I'll neither wait, nor fit, nor prate,
I've other fish to fry."

Go take your farmer's son,
With all

my

honeft heart: What tho' my name be Roger,

That goes at plough and cart? , I need not tarry long,

I foon may gain a wife:

There's buxom Joan, it is well known,

She loves me as her life.

Pray, what of buxom Joan?

Can't. I please you as well? For she has ne'er a penny,

And I am buxom Neil : And I have fifty thillings.

(The money made him fnile. Oh! then, my dear, I'll draw a chair,

And chat with thee a while.

Within the space of half-an-hour,

This couple a bargain ftruck; Hoping that, with their money,

They both would have good luck. To your fifty I've forty,

With which a cow we'll buy; We'll join our hands in wedlock.bands, Then who but

you

and I?

SONG 109. GENTLY touch the warbling lyre,

Chloe seems inclin'd to reft,
Fill her soul with fond defire,

Softeft notes will sooth her breast;
Pleasing dreams aslift in love,
Let them all propitious prove.

L a

On the mofly bank she lyes,

(Nature's verdant velvet bed,) Beauteous flowers meet her eyes,

Forming pillows for her head : Zephyrs waft their odours round, And indulging whispers found.

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In Imitation of the foregoing. GENTLY fir and blow the fire,

Lay the mutton down to roast, Get me, quick, 'uis my desire,

In the dreeping-pan a toast ; That my hunger may remove ; Mutton is the meat I love.

On the dreffer, fee, it lyes :

Oh ! the charming white and redi Finer meat ne'er met my eyes,

On the sweetest grass it fed: Swiftly make the jack go round, Let me have it nicely brownd.

On the table spread the cloth,

Let the knives be sharp and clean : Pickles get of every fort,

And a fallad crisp and green;

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