Happy if Morpheus visits there,
A while to lull his wo and care;
Send sweeter fancies to his aid,
And teach him to be undismay'd;
Yet wretched still, for when no more
The gods their opiate balsam pour,
Ah, me! he starts, and views again.
The Lybian monster prance along the plain.
Now from oozing caves he flies,
And to the city's tumults hies,
Thinking to frolic life away,

Be ever cheerful, ever gay:

But tho' enwrapt in noise and smoke,

They ne'er can heal his peace when broke;

His fears arise, he sighs again

For solitude on rural plain;

Even there his wishes all conveen

To bear him to his noise again.

Thus tortur'd, rack'd, and sore opprest,

He constant hunts, but never finds his rest.

Antistrophe.. Oh exercise! thou healing power,

The toiling rustic's chiefest dower;

Be thou with parent virtue join'd
To quell the tumults of the mind;
Then man as much of joy can share
From ruffian winter, bleakly bare,
As from the pure etherial blaze
That wantons in the summer rays;
The humble cottage then can bring
Content, the comfort of a king;
And gloomy mortals wish no more

For wealth and idleness to make them poor.


THOU joyous fiend, life's constant foe,
Sad source of care, and spring of wo,
Soft Pleasure's hard controul;

Her gayest haunts for ever nigh,
Stern mistress of the secret sigh,

That swells the murm'ring soul.

Why haunt'st thou me thro' deserts drear?
With grief-swoln sounds why wound my ear,
Denied to Pity's aid?

Thy visage wan did e'er I woo,
Or at thy feet in homage bow,
Or court thy sullen shade?

Even now enchanted scenes abound,
Elysian glories strew the ground,
To lure th' astonish'd eyes;

Now horrors, hell, and furies reign,
And desolate the fairy scene
Of all its gay disguise.

The passions at thy urgent call,
Our reason and our sense enthral
In frenzy's fetters strong.

And now Despair with lurid eye
Doth meagre poverty descry,
Subdu'd by famine long.

The lover flies the haunts of day,
In gloomy woods and wilds to stray,
There shuns his Jessy's scorn;

Sad sisters of the sighing grove

Attune their lyres to hapless love,
Dejected and forlorn.

Yet Hope undaunted wears thy chain,
And smiles amidst the growing pain,
Nor fears thy sad dismay;

Unaw'd by power her fancy flies
From earth's dim orb to purer skies,
Realms of endless day.


THE waving yew or cypress wreath
In vain bequeathe the mighty tear;
In vain the awful pomp of death
Attends the sable-shrouded bier.

Since Strephon's virtue's sunk to rest,
Nor pity's sigh nor sorrow's strain,
Nor magic tongue, have e'er confest
Our wounded bosom's secret pain.
The just, the good, more honours share
In what the conscious heart bestows,
Than voice adorn'd with sculptor's care,
In all the venal pomp of woes.

A sad-ey'd mourner at his tomb,

Thou, Friendship! pay thy rites divine, And echo thro' the midnight gloom That Strephon's early fall was thine.


NE'ER fash your thumb what gods decree To be the weird o' you or me,

Nor deal in cantrip's kittle cunning

To spier how fast your days are running;

But patient lippen for the best,
Nor be in dowy thought opprest,
Whether we see mair winters come,
Than this that spits wi' canker'd foam.
Now moisten weel your geyzen'd wa's
Wi' couthy friends and hearty blaws;
No'er let your hope o'ergang your days,
For eild and thraldom never stays;
The day looks gash, toot aff your horn,
Nor care yae strae about the morn.


My life is like the flowing stream
That glides where summer's beauties teem,
Meets all the riches of the gale

That on its watry bosom sail,

And wanders 'midst Elysian groves

Thro' all the haunts that fancy loves.

May I when drooping days decline, And 'gainst those genial streams combine, The winter's sad decay forsake,

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SINCE brightest beauty soon must fade,

That in life's spring so long has roll'd,

And wither in the drooping shade,
E'er it return to native mould:

Ye virgins, sieze the fleeting hour,
In time catch Cytherea's joy,

Ere age your wonted smiles deflow'r,
And hopes of love and life annoy.


On a Lawyer's desiring one of the Tribe to look with respect to a GIBBET.

THE lawyers may revere that tree
Where thieves so oft have strung,
Since, by the Law's most wise decree,
Her thieves are never hung.

On the AUTHOR's intention of going to Sea.

FORTUNE and Bob, e'er since his birth,
Could never yet agree,

She fairly kickt him from the earth
To try his fate at sea.


IVritten Extempore, at the desire of a Gentleman who was rather ill-favoured, but who had a beautiful Family of


SC-TT and his children emblems are

Of real good and evil;

His children are like cherubims,

But Sc-tt is like the devil.

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