When I within myself retreat
I fhut my doors against the great,

My busy eyeballs inward roll,
And there with large survey I see
All the wide theatre of Me,
And view the various scenes of my retiring soul;
There I walk o'er the mazes I have trod, 25
While hope and fear are in a doubtful ftrife
Whether this opera of life
Be acted well to gain the plaudit of my God.

IV. There's a day haft’ning ('t is an awful day!) When the Great Sov'reign shall at large review 30 All that we speak and all we do, The sev'ral parts we act on this wide stage of clay : These he approves and those he blames, And crowns perhaps a porter and a prince he damns. O if the Judge from his tremendous feat

Shall not condemn what I have done
I shall be happy tho’unknown,
Nor heed the gazing rabble nor the shouting street.

I hate the glory, Friend! that springs
From vulgar breath and empty sound:
Fame mounts her upward with a flatt'ring gale
Upon her airy wings
Volume VI.



Till Envy shoots and Fame receives the wound,
Then her flagging pinions fail,
Down Glory falls and strikes the ground, 45
And breaks her batter'd limbs.
Rather let me be quite conceal’d from Fame:
How happy I should lie
In sweet obscurity,
Nor the loud world pronounce my little name! 50
Here I could live and die alone;
Or if society be due
To keep our taste of pleasure new,
Gunston! I'd live and die with you,
For both our souls are one.

Here we could fit and pass the hour,
And pity kingdoms and their kings,
And smile at all their shining things,
Their toys of state and images of pow'r:
Virtue should dwell within our seat,
Virtue alone could make it sweet;
Nor is herself secure but in a close retreat.
While she withdraws from publick praise,
Envy perhaps would cease to rait,
Envy itself may innocently gaze
At Beauty in a vail ;
But if she once advance to light
Her charms are lost in Envy's sight,
And Virtue stands the mark of universal spite. 69




To John Hartopp, Esq. now Sir John Hartopp, Bart.

The disdain, 1700.

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Hartopp! I love the soul that dares
'Tread the temptations of his years
Beneath his youthful feet:
Fleetwood, and all chy heav'nly line,
Look thro' the stars and smile divine
Upon an heir so great.
Young Hartopp knows this noble theme,
That the wild scenes of busy life,
The noise, th' amusements, and the strife,
Are but the visions of the night,
Gay phantoms of delusive light,
Or a vexatious dream.

Flesh is the vileft and the least
Ingredient of our frame :
We're horn to live above the beast
Or quit the manly name.
Pleasures of sense we leave for boys;
Be thining dust the miser's food;
Let Fancy feed on famé and noise,
Souls must pursue diviner joys,
And seize th' immortal good.



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To Mitio, my friend.

An epiftle. Forgive me, Mitio, that there should be any mortifying lines in the following poems inscribed to you fo soon after your entrance into that state which was designed for the completest happiness on earth; but you will quickly discover that the Muse in the firft poem only represents the fhades and dark colours that melancholy throws upon love and the social life; in the second perhaps she indulges her own bright ideas a little; yet if the accounts are but well balanced at last, and things set in a due light, I hope there is no ground for censure. Here you will find an attempt made to talk of one of the most important concerns of human nature in verse, and that with a solemnity becoming the argument. I have banished grimace and ridicule, that persons of the most serious character may

read without offence. What was written several years ago to yourself is now permitted to entertain the world; but you may assume it to yourself as a private entertainment still while you lie concealed behind a feigned name.


The mourning-piece. Life's a long tragedy; this globe the stage, Well fix'd and well adorn'd with Atrong machines,


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Gay fields, and skies, and seas; the actors many,
The plot immense; a flight of demons fit
On ev'ry failing cloud with fatal purpose, 5
And shoot across the scenes ten thousand arrows
Perpetual and unseen, headed with pain,
With sorrow, infamy, disease, and death :
The pointed plagues fly filent thro’ the air
Nor twangs the bow, yet sure and deep the wound. ro

Dianthe acts her little part alone,
Nor wishes an associate: lo! The glides
Single thro' all the storm and more secure;
Less are her dangers, and her breast receives
The fewel darts. “But O my lov'd Marilla,

15 'My sister, once my friend, (Dianthe cries) “ How much art thou expos’d! thy growing soul “ Doubled in wedlock, multiply'd in children, - Stands but the broader mark for all the mifchicks “That rove promiscuous o'er the mortal stage. “ Children! those dear young limbs, those tend'rest “Of your own flesh, those little other felves, (pieces “ How they dilate the heart to wide dimensions, “And foften ev'ry fibre to improve “ The mother's fad capacity of pain!

25 “ I mourn Fidelio too, tho' Heav’n has chose " A fav'rite mate for him, of all her sex “ The pride and flow'r: how bless’d the lovely pair “ Beyond expression, if well-mingled loves “And woes well-mingled could improve our bliss! 30


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