(The only Comfort they propose,
To have Companions in their Woes.)
Grant this the Cafe, yet fure 'tis hard
That Virtue, fil'd its own Reward,
And by all Sages understood.
To be the chief of human Good,
Shou'd acting, die, or leave behind
Some lafting Pleasure in the Mind,
Which by Remembrance will affwage,
Grief, Sickness, Poverty, and Age;
And strongly shoot a radiant Dart,
To fhine thro' Life's declining Part.
SAY, Stella, feel you no Content,
Reflecting on a Life well spent ;
Your skilful Hand employ'd to fave
Despairing Wretches from the Grave;
And then fupporting with your Store,
Those whom you dragg'd from Death before:
So Providence on Mortals waits,
Preferving what it first creates,
You gen'rous Boldness to defend
An innocent and abfent Friend;
That Courage which can make you just,
To Merit humbled in the Duft;
The Deteftation you exprefs
For Vice in all its glitt'ring Dress:
That Patience under tort'ring Pain,
Where ftubborn Stoicks wou'd complain.
MUST thefe like empty Shadows pafs, Or Forms reflected from a Glafs?
Or mere Chimera's in the Mind,
That fly, and leave no Marks behind?
Does not the Body thrive and grow
By Food of twenty Years ago?
And, had it not been still supply'd,
It muft a thousand Times have dy'd.
Then, who with Reason can maintain
That no Effects of Food remain ?
And, is not Virtue in Mankind
The Nutriment that feeds the Mind?
Upheld by each good Action paft,
And ftill continu'd by the last:
Then, who with Reafon can pretend
That all Effects of Virtue end?
BELIEVE me, Stella, when you fhow
That true Contempt for Things below,
Nor prize your Life for other Ends
Than merely to oblige your Friends;
Your former Actions claim their Part,
And join to fortify your Heart.
For Virtue in her daily Race,
Like Fanus, bears a double Face;
Look back with Joy where she has gone,
And therefore goes with Courage on.
She at your fickly Couch will wait,
And guide you to a better State.
O THEN, whatever Heav'n intends,
Take pity on your pitying Friends;
Nor let your Ills affect your Mind,
To fancy they can be unkind,
Me, furely me, you ought to fpare,
Who gladly wou'd your Suff 'rings share;
Or give my Scrap of Life to you,
And think it far beneath your Due;
You to whofe Care fo oft I owe
That I'm alive to tell you fo.
*To Mrs. M, B. fent on her Birth-Day, June 15.
OH, be thou bleft with all that Heav'n can fend,
Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and
a Friend:
Not with those Toys the Female Race admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire;
Not as the World its pretty Slaves rewards,
A Youth of Frolicks, an Old Age of Cards;
Fair to no Purpose, artful to no End;
Young without Lovers, old without a Friend;
A Fop their Paffion, but their Prize a Sot ;
Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot!
LET Joy, or Ease, let Affluence, or Content,
And the gay Conscience of a Life well spent,
Calm ev'ry Thought, infpirit ev'ry Grace,
Glow in thy Heart, and fmile upon thy Face;
Let Day improve on Day, and Year on Year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear:
Till Death unfelt that tender Frame destroy,
In fome foft Dream, or Extafy of Joy,
Peaceful fleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come!
*SONG. By a Perfon of Quality.
SAID to my Heart, between Sleeping and Waking, Thou wild Thing, that always art leaping or aking,
What Black, Brown, or Fair, in what Clime, in what Nation.
By Turns has not taught thee a Pit-a-patation ?
Thus accus'd, the wild Thing gave this fober Reply; See the Heart without Motion, tho' Celia pafs by! Not the Beauty she has, or the Wit that the borrows, Gives the Eye any Joys, or the Heart
When our Sappho appears, fhe whofe Wit fo refin'd,
I am forc'd to applaud with the rest of Mankind
Whatever the fays, is with Spirit and Fire;
Ev'ry Word I attend; but I only admire.
Prudentia as vainly would put in her Claim,
Ever gazing on Heaven, tho' Man in her Aim;
'Tis Love, not Devotion, that turns up her Eyes,
Thofe Stars of this World are too good for the Skies.
But Cloe fo lively, fo eafy, fo fair,
Her Wit fo genteel, without Art, without Care; When the comes in my Way, the Motion, the Pain, · The Leapings, the Akings, return all again.
O wonderful Creature! a Woman of Reafon ! Never grave out of Pride, never gay out of Seafon; When fo easy to guefs who this Angel should be, Would one think Mrs. -d ne'er dreamt it was
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