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Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arms.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bleft the cot where ev'ry pleasure rofe;
And kift her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clap them close, in forrow doubly dear;
Whift her fond husband ftrove to lend relief
In all the filent manliness of grief.

380

O luxury thou curft by heav'n's decree,

How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee!

385

How do thy potions with infidious joy,

Diffuse their pleafures only to deftroy!

Kingdoms by thee, to fickly greatness grown,

Boaft of a florid vigour not their own.

390

At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo;

Till fapp'd their ftrength, and ev'ry part unfound,
Down, down they fink, and spread a ruin round.
Ev'n now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of deftruction done;
Ev'n now, methinks, as pond'ring here I ftand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anch'ring veffel swells the fail
That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale,

Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pafs from the fhore, and darken all the strand.

400

405

Contented toil, and hofpitable care,

And kind connubial tenderness, are there;

And piety with wishes plac'd above,

And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

And thou, fweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still firft to fly where fenfual joys invade;

410

Unfit in thefe degen'rate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or ítrike for honeft fame ;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry'd,
My fhame in crouds, my folitary pride.
Thou fource of all my blifs, and all my woe,
That found'ft me poor at first, and keep'ft me fo;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well.
Farewel, and O! where'er thy voice be try'd,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's fide,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in fnow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redrefs the rigours of th' inclement clime
Aid flighted truth, with thy persuasive strain ;
Teach erring man to fpurn the rage of gain,
Teach him, that ftates of native ftrength poffeft,
Tho' very poor, may ftill be very
bleft;
That trade's proud empire haftes to fwift decay,
As ocean fweeps the labour'd mole away;
While felf-dependent pow't can time defy,
As rocks refift the billows and the sky.

415

420

425

430

THE

GIFT.

TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET,

COVENT GARDEN.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual off ring fhall I make
Expreffive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,

Say, would the angry Fair One prize
The gift, who flights the giver ?

A hill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em.
If gems, or gold, import a joy,
I'll give them when I get 'em.

I'll give-but not the full-blown rofe,

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I'll give thee fomething yet unpaid,

Not lefs fincere than civil:

I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil.

DR.

EPITAPH

ON

PAR NE L.

THIS tomb, inferib'd to gentle PARNEL's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his fweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth thro' pleasure's flow'ry way?
Celestial themes confefs'd his tuneful aid;
And Heav'n, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The tranfitory breath of fame below:
More lafting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EIP LOGUE

TO THE

SIST ER S.

WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wifer

Our auth'refs fure has wanted an adviser.
Had fhe confulted me, fhe fhould have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from finking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and fav'd the pain of thinking.
Well, fince she has thus fhewn her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?—I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub! [paufing.]-I've got

my cue :

The world's a masquerade! the mafquers, you, you, [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.

you.

Lud! what a group the motley fcene discloses!

Falfe wits, falfe wives, falfe virgins, and false spouses !
Statefmen with bridles on; and, close befide 'em,

Patriots in party-colour'd fuits that ride 'em.
There Hebes turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deferting fifty, faften on fifteen.

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