Imatges de pÓgina
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Fashion with more than BOREAs' rage

A universal snow has shed,

And given the hoary tint of age

To every lovely female's head.

O break thy rival's hated spell,

Kind Nature! that where'er we ramble,

Thy work from Courtoi's we may tell,

And know a Myrtle from a Bramble.

MAD

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YES

ES, yes, my friend, I quit the fond pre

tence

To cool reflection, and unbiass'd sense;

Your hands have torn away the thin disguise
Which hid my follies from my partial eyes.

- Mad since I am, why should conceited pride, Deny that weakness which it cannot hide ?

Why blush to own the follies of

my

mind,

When kept in countenance by half mankind?

Who

Who from the paths of Truth and Sense will stray

Where Reason lights, and Virtue guards the way,

Afier those meteors treacherous beams to rove,

Ambition, Avarice, Vanity, or Love.

Nor while the soul contending passions goad

E'er once regret they left the safer road,

Proud of their shame, and happy in their woe,

Will foil the skill of BATTIE and MONRO.

Miftaken Curio, form'd alone to please In the calm circle of domestic ease,

Must quit the placid joys of private life

For public honors won in public strife :
No listening Senate's plausive notes attend

The gay companion, and the faithful friend.

He'll shew the world combin'd with STANHOPE's

wit

The flow of TowNSHEND, and the fire of Pitt.

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Now with success he gets the Election o'er
And gives St. Stephen's one pert

blockhead more ; Pretends with schemes of Wisdom fraught to rise,

Declaims on libels, pensions, and excise,

And, while loud laughter bursts on every side,

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The heaps of useless gold that round him lie!

That man when Fortune less profusely gave

Enjoy'd her scanty gifts, nor wish'd to save,

What she bestow'd with chearful hand he spent,

Nor wanted millions while he had content;

His pleasures lefsen as her smiles increase,
Till wealth immense completely blasts his peace;

Now to himself each comfort he denies

That public care to poverty supplies,

Lets his drear mansion totter o'er his head,

And ʼmid profusion dies for want of bread,

Lo Sylvius! once beyond description bleft, Calm were his joys, and peaceful was his breast,

His youth he spent remote from Camps and Courts

In rural labors, and in rural sports,

High forests rose obedient to his hand,
And waving plenty crown'd his fertile land,
With good old Port his social vaults were stor’d,

And frequent sirloins smoak'd upon his board.

But ah! when fifty winters should have shed

A wiser influence o'er his hoary head,

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