But to the beggar and the king, Clean linen's a reviving thing; Yet these our plagues don't reach : The king, great man, fends all his out, But what's more happy ftill, But Lord have mercy on us all! For Madam fcolds, and flies about; Now up, now down, now in, now out, This curfed time all comfort flies, At fix fhe starts, Come, Ned! come, rife! And get the lines hung out!' Yes, to be fure, my dear!' I cry: Breakfast is got, and whipp'd away, (Because the washers want their tea) Before that I've half done : The doors all open, linen fpread; The sky looks black- Come hither, Ned, • Shall we have rain or fun?' My dear, you need not be in pain, Then ten-fold comes the peal on me: Ifneak away, to have a smile, From fuch unlucky ftorms of rain, The meat,' I cry, of foap-fuds twangs! But what ftill troubles more my mind, With pleasure fweats and fings. I hate, I must confefs, all dirt, Yet once a month this reek Is more than any one can bear: HYMN HYMN TO PROSPERITY. BY MISS SALLY CARTER. Cile'er thy beam divine NELESTIAL maid, receive this pray'r! If Should gild the brow of toiling Care, And bless a hut like mine: MEDITATION. AN ELEGY. BY HUGH KELLY, ESQ. WRAPP'D in the fhade where Meditation lies, And holds a mental intercourfe above; Come, Truth, and teach a bofom to be wife, What art thou-wond'rous impulfe of defire, Sweet inconfiftent offspring of the sky, If Mira's face in ev'ry charm is drefs'd, Alas! fince being fmil'd upon the morn, Too eafy Nature, indolently kind, From Fate's fevere restrictions to depart, Gave man a paffive tenderness of mind, And beauty's fole dominion o'er the heart. But But yet the pang of never-hoping love, To time's last moment deftin'd to conceal; Is not the only forrow we must prove, The only forrow we are doom'd to feel. A latent train of hydra-headed woes, Perhaps, e'en now, fome high diftinguifh'd name, Perhaps, now tortur'd on imperial down, The flave of greatnefs, and the wretch of pow'r Some ill-ftarr'd youth, whofe melancholy moan Now weeps, perhaps, in bitterness alone, Science, which left him polish'd and refin'd, No hand, alas! it's kind affiftance lends, To drive misfortune from his lowly door; For when, O when, did wretchedness make friends! |