Sidor som bilder

Come, and forsake thy cloying store;

Thy turret that surveys, from high,
The smoke, and wealth, and noise of Rome ;

And all the busy pageantry
That wise men scorn, and fools adore :
Come, give thy soul a loose, and taste the pleasures of the




Sometimes 'tis grateful to the rich to try
A short viciffitude, and fit of

poverty: A savoury dish, a homely treat, Where all is plain, where all is neat,

Without the stately spacious room,
The Persian carpet, or the Tyrian loom,
Clear up the cloudy foreheads of the great.

The fun is in the lion mounted high;

The Syrian ftar,

Barks from afar,
And with his fultry breath infects the sky;
The ground below is parch’d, the Heav'ns above us fry.

The shepherd drives his fainting flock
Beneath the covert of a rock,
And seeks refreshing rivulets nigh:

The Sylvans to their shades retire,
Those very shades and streams new shades and streams

require, And want a cooling breeze of wind to fan the raging fire,

Thou, what befits the new Lord Mayor,
And what the city factions dare,
And what the Gallic arms will do,
And what the quiver-bearing foe,
Art anxiously inquisitive to know :




Bat God has, wisely, hid from human fight

The dark decrees of future fate,

And fows their feeds in depth of night;
He laughs at all the giddy turns of ftate ;
When mortals fearch too foon, and fear too late,

Enjoy the present smiling hoor;

And put it out of fortune's pow'r :
The tide of business, like the running Atream,

Is fometimes high, and sometimes low,
A quiet ebb, or a tempestuous flow,

And always in extreme.
Now with a noiseless gentle course
It keeps within the middle bed;

Anon it lifts aloft the head,
And bears down all before it with impetuous force :

And trunks of trees come rolling down,

Sheep and their folds together drown : Both house and homefted into feas are borne ;

And rocks are from their old foundations torn,
And woods, made thin with winds, their fcatter'd honours

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He, who can cal] to-day his own :

He who, fecure within, can fay,
To-morrow do thy worst, for I have liv'd to-day

Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,
The joys I have poffefs'd, in spite of fate are mine,

Not Heav'n itself upon the past has pow'r ;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

Fortune, that, with malicious joy,

Does man her slave oppress,
Proud of her office to destroy,
Is feldom pleas'd to bless :



Still various and unconstant ftill,
But with an inclination to be illo

Promotes, degrades, delights in Grife,

And makes a loctery of lite.

I can enjoy her while she's kind;
But when the dances in the wind,

And ihakes the wings and will not tay,

I puff the prostitute away :
The little or the much the gave, is quietly religa'd:

Content with poverty, my foul I arm;
And virtue, tho' in rags, will keep me warm.


What is't to me,
Who never fail in her unfaithful sea,
If forms arise, and cloads


If the matt split, and threaten wreck ?
Then let the greedy merchant fear

For his ill-gotten gain ;
And pray to Gods that will not hear,
While the debating winds and billows bear

His wealth into the main.
For me, secure, from fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lose,

my small pinace I can sail,
Contemning all the bluft'ring roar ;

And running with a merry gale,
With friendly stars my safety seek
Within fome little winding creek;

And see the storm ashore.

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С E.

Howrich in humble poverty, is he,

in his low

Who leads a quiet country life;
Discharg'd of business, void of ftrife,
And from the griping scrivener free?
Thus, ere the seeds of vice were sown,

Liv'd men in better ages born,
Who plow'd with oxen of their own

Their small paternal field of corn. Nor trumpets fummon him to war.

Nor drums difturb his morning fleep, Nor knows he merchants gainful care,

Nor fears the dangers of the deep.
The clamours of contentious law,

And court and state, he wisely fhuns,
Nor brib'd with hopes, nor dar'd with awe,

To fervile falutations runs ;
But either to the clasping vine

Does the supporting poplar wed, Or with his pruning-hook disjoin

Unbearing branches from their head,

And grafts more happy in their stead : Or, climbing to a hilly steep,

He views his herds in vales afar, Or sheers his overburden'd sheep,

Or mead for cooling drink prepares,

Of virgin honey in the jars. Or in the now declining year,

When bounteous autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripen'd pear,

And clust'ring grapes with purple spread.


The fairest of his fruit he serves,

Priapus, thy rewards :
E?" Sylvanus too his part deserves,

Whose care the fences guards.
C Sometimes beneath an ancient oak,

Or on the matted grafs he lies ;
No God of leep he need invoke ;

The stream that o'er the pebbles fies

With gentle flumber crowns his eyes.
The wind that whistles through the sprays

Maintains the consort of the song ;
And hidden birds with native lays

The golden sleep prolong.
But when the blait of winter blows,

And hoary froit inverts the year,
Into the naked woods he goes,

And seeks the tulky boar to rear,

With well-mouch'd hounds and pointed spear!
Or spreads his subtle nets from fight

With twinkling glasses, to betray
The larks that in the meshes light,

Or makes the fearful hare his prey.
Amidst his harmless easy joys

No anxious care invades his health,
Nor love his peace of mind destroys,

Nor wicked avarice of wealth,
But if a chaste and pleasing wife,
To ease the business of his life,
Divides with him his houshold care,
Such as the Sabine matrons were,
Such as the swift Apulian's bride,

Sun-burnt and swarthy cho' she be,
Will fire for winter nights provide,

And without noise will oversee

His children and his family ;

And order all things till he come, d

Sweaty and overlabour'd, home;

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