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Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a father's arins.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bleft the cot where ev'ry pleasure rose ;
And kist her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clap them clofe, in forrow doubly dear;
Whist her fond husband ftrove to lend relief
In all the filent manliness of grief.

O luxury ! thou curft by heav'n's decree,
How ill exchang’d are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions with infidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boaft of a florid vigour not their own.
At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy wo;
Till sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unsound,
Down, down they fink, and spread a ruin round.

Ev'n now the devastation is begun,
And half the business of destruction done ;
Ey'n now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand,
I see the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anch’ring vessel swells the fail
That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale,
Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness, are there;
And piety with wishes plac'd above,
And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;

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Unfit in these degen’rate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or ítrike for honest fame ;
Dear charming nymph, neglected and di cry'd, 415
My shame in crouds, my folitary pride.
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That founa'ít me poor at first, and keep'ít me so;
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel,
Thou nurse of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well. 420
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 snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,

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Redress the rigours of 15'inclement clime ;
Aid flighted truth, with thy persuasive strain ;
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain,
Teach him, that states of native strength poffeft,
Tho' very poor, may still be very bleft ;

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That trade's proud empire haftes to swift decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour’d mole away ;
While self-dependent pow'ı can time defy,
As rocks sesist the billows and the sky.

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My heart, a vi&im 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 rose,

Or rose-bud more in fashion ;
Such short-liv'd off’rings but disclose

A transitory passion.

I'll give thee fomething yet unpaid,

Not less sincere than civil :
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,

I'll give thee-to the devil.

E p ITA PH

Ο Ν

DR.

P AR N E L.

A N E

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

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What! five long afts—and all to make us wiser
Our auth'ress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should 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 bad kept her play from finking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of thinking.
Well, since she has thus shewn 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 masquers, you, you, you.

[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! Falle wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, Patriots in party-colour'd suits 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, Deserting fifty, faften on fifteen.

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