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(The only Comfort they propose,
To have Companions in their Woes.)
Grant this the Case, yet sure 'tis hard
That Virtue, fild its own Reward,
And by all Sages understood.
To be the chief of human Good,
Shou'd acting, die, or leave behind
Some lasting Pleasure in the Mind,
Which by Remembrance will affwage,
Grief, Sickness, Poverty, and Age ;
And strongly shoot a radiant Dart,
To shine thro’ Life's declining Part.

SAY, Stella, feel you no Content,
Reflecting on a Life well spent ;
Your skilful Hand employ'd to save
Despairing Wretches from the Grave ;
And then supporting with your Store,
Those whom you dragg’d from Death before:
So Providence on Mortals waits,
Preserving what it first creates,
You gen'rous Boldness to defend
An innocent and absent Friend ;
That Courage which can make you just,
To Merit humbled in the Duft ;
The Detestation you express
For Vice in all its glitt'ring Dress :
That Patience under tort'ring Pain,
Where stubborn Stoicks wou'd complain.

MUST

Must these like empty Shadows pafs, Or Forms reflected from a Glass ? Or mere Chimæra'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 must 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 cach good Action paft, And still continu'd by the last : Then, who with Reason can pretend That all Effects of Virtue end ? Believe me, Stella, when

you

show 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 sickly 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 lils affect your Mind,
To fancy they can be unkind,
Me, surely me, you ought to spare,
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 whose Care so oft I owe
That I'm alive to tell

you

fo,

* To Mrs. M. B. fent on her Birth-Day,

June 15

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H, be thou bleft with all that Heav'n can send,
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 Passion, but their Prize a Sot ;
Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot !

LET

LET Joy, or Ease, let Afluence, or Content,
And the gay Conscience of a Life well spent,
Calm ev'ry Thought, inspirit ev'ry Grace,
Glow in thy Heart, and smile upon thy Face;
Let Day improve on Day, and Year on Year,
Without a Puin, a Trouble, or a Fear :
Till Death unfelt that tender Frame destroy,
la fome soft Dream, or Extasy of Joy,
Peaceful sleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come!

*SONG. By a Person of Quality.

I

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---patation ?

Thus accus'd, the wild Thing gave this sober Reply; See the Heart without Motion, tho' Cælia pass by! Not the Beauty she has, or the Wit that the borrows, Gives the Eye any Joys, or the Heart any Sorrows.

Wher:

When our Sappho appears, she whole Wit so resin'd,
I am forc'd to applaud with the rest of Mankind;
Whatever she says, 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, .
Those Stars of this World are too good for the Skies.

But Cloe so lively, so easy, fo fair,
Her Wit so genteel, withoat Art, without Care;
When she comes in my Way, the Motion, the Pain,
The Leapings, the Aking), return all again.

( wonderful Creature! a Woman of Reason ! Never grave out of Pride, never gay out of Season; When so easy to guess who this Angel should be, Would one think Mrs. 1l--d ne'er dreamt it was

She ?

* BALLAD.

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