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Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,
No hive haft thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display;
On hafty wings thy youth is flown,
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone
We frolic while 'tis May.

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ODE IJ.
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT,

Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fisbes. 'TWAS on a lofty vafe's fide,

Where China's gayest art had dy'd
The azure flow'rs that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclin'd,
Gaz'd on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declar'd;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her

paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and em'rald eyes,
She faw, and purr'd applause.
Still had she gaz’d, but, ʼmidst the tide,
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream;
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue,
Thro' richest purple, to the view
Betray'd a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw:
A whisker first, and then a claw,

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With many an ardent wish,
She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize :
What female heart can gold despise ?
What Cat's averse to fish?
Presumpt'ous maid! with looks intent,
Again the stretch'd, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between :
(Malignant Fate sat hy and fmild,)
The Nipp’ry verge her feet beguild;
She tumbl’d headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mew'd to ev'ry wat’ry god
Some speedy aid to send.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd,
Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard :
A fav’rite has no friend !
From hence, ye Beauties ! undeceiv'd,
Know one false step is ne'er retriev'd,
And be with caution bold:
Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes,
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize,
Nor all that glifters gold.

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ODE III.

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ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.
YE diftant Spires! ye antique Tow’rs !

That crown the watry glade
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's * holy shade ;
And ye that from the stately brow

S
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey,
Whose turf, whose fhade, whose flow'rs, among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His filver-winding way:
Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
Ah fields belov'd in vain !
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A ftranger yet to pain !
I feel the gales that from ye

blow

IS A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing My weary foul they seem to sooth, And, redolent f of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring. Say, father Thames! for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race, Difporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace,

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* King Henry VI. founder of the College.
+ And bees their honey redolent of spring.

Dryden's Fable on the Pythug. Syftem,

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Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave ?
The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny fucceed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the ftying ball ?
While some, on earnest bus'ness bent,
Their murm’ring labours ply
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint,
To sweeten liberty;
Some hold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare defcry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in ev'ry wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Lefs pleasing when poffeft;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast;
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer of vigour born ;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.
Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:

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Yet see how all around 'em wait
The ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune's baleful train!
Ah! Thew them where in ambush ftand,
To seize their prey,

the murd'rous band !
Ah! tell them they are men.
These shall the fury Passions tear;
The vultures of the mind;
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
And Shame that sculks behind;
Or pining Love fhall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart;
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-vifag'd, comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.
Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a facrifice,
And grinning Infamy:
The stings of Falsehood those Mall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen Remorse, with blood defil'd,
And moody Madness * laughing wild
Amid feverest wo.
Lo! in the vale of

years

beneath A grisly troop are seen,

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* And Madness laughing in his ireful mood.

Drguen's Fable of Palamon and Arcitea

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