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The other slights for wohnen, sports, and wines, All Townshend's turnips, and all Grosvenor's

mines : Why one, like Bu~, with pay and scorn content; Bows and votes on in court, and parliament; 275 One, driv'n by strong benevolence of soul, Shall fiy, like Oglethorpe, from pole to pole ; Is known alone to that directing pow'r, Who forms the genius in the natal hour; That God of Nature, who, within us still, 280 Inclines our action, not constrains our will. Various of temper, as of face or frame, Each individual ; his great end the same. Yes, Sir, how small soever be my heap, A part I will enjoy as well as keep.

- 283 My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace A man so poor would live without a place ; But sure no statute iri his favor says, How free, or frugal, I shall pass my days ; I who at some times spend, at others spare, 290 Divided between carelessness and care. 'Tis one thing, madly to disperse my store, Another, not to heed to treasure more ; Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day, And pleas’d, if sordid want be far away. 290 : What is't tò me (a passenger, God wot) Whether my vessel be first rate, or not? The ship itself may make a better figure, But I that sail, am ueither less, nor bigger,

I neither strut with ev'ry fav’ring breath, 300
Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth ;
In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd
Behind the foremost, and before the last.

• But why all this of avarice? I have none."
I wish you joy, sir, of a cyrant gone. 305
But does no other lord it, at this hour,
As wild and mad ? the avarice of pow'r ?
Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appal ?
Not the black fear of death, that saddens all ?
With terrors round, can reason hold her throne,
Despise the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire, 312
In spite of witches, devils, dreams, and fire ?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each birth-day with a grateful mind?
Has life no sourness drawn so near its end ? 316
Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend ?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter-fruits grow mild ere they decay ? 319
Or will you think, my friend ! your bus'ness done,
When of a hundred thorns you pull out one ?

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will; You've play'd, and lov?d, and atę, and drank your

fill. Walk sober off, before a sprighulier age Comes titt'ring on, and shoves you from the stage : Leave such to trifle with more grace and ease 326 Whom folly pleases, and whose follies please,


Again new tumults in my breast ?
Ah, spare me, Venus ! let me, let me rest!
I am not now, alas ! the man
As in the gentle reign of my queen Anne.
Ah! sound no more thy soft alarms,
Nor circle sober fifty with thy charms.
Mother too fierce of dear desires !
Turn, turn, to willing hearts your wanton fires;
To number five direct your doves,
There spread round Murray, all your blooming

Noble and young, who strikes the heart
With ey'ry sprightly, ev'ry decent part;
Equal the injur'd to defend,
To charm the mistress, or to fix the friend :
He, with a hundred arts refin'd,
Shall stretch thy conquests over half the kind :
To him each rival shall submit,
Make but his riches equal to his wit.
Then shall thy form the marble grace,
(Thy Grecian form) and Chloe lend the face;
His house, embosom'd in the grove,
Sacred to social life, and social love,
Shall glitter o'er the pendent green,
Where Thames reflects the visionary scene;

Thither the silver-sounding lyres Shall call the smiling Loves and young Desires; There ev'ry Grace and Muse shall throng, Exalt the dance, or animaię the song ; There youths and nymphs, in consort gay, Shall hail the rising, close the parting day. With mc, alas ! those joys are oʻer; For me the vernal garlands bloom no more, Adieu ! fond hope of mutual fire, The still believing, still renewid dcsire ! Adieu ! the heart-expanding bawl, And all the kind deceivers of the soul ! But why? ah ! tell me, ah ! too dear! Steals down my cheek th' involuntary tear ? Why words so flowing, thoughts so free, Stop, or turn nonsense, at one glance of thee? Thee, dress'd in Fancy's airy beam, Absent I follow through th' extended dream; Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms, And now you burst (ah, cruel !) from my arms ! And swiftly shoot along the Mall, Or softly glide by the Canal ; Now shown by Cynthia's silver ray, And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.



Lost you should think that verse shall die,
Which sounds the silver Thames along,
Taught on the wings of Truth to fly
Above the reach of vulgar song ; .

Through daring Milton sits sublime
In Spencer native Muses play ;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,
Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay—

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Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride!
They had no poet, and they died.
In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled !
They had no poet, and are dead.

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