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More than mature, and tending to decay,
When our brown Locks repine to mix withodious grey.
LAST Winter creeps
tardy Pace, Sour is his Front, and furrow'd is his Face; His Scalp if not dishonour'd quite of Hair, The ragged Fleece is thin,and thin is worse than bare. Ev'n our own Bodies daily change receive, Some part of what was theirs before, they leave; Nor are to day what yesterday they were, Nor the whole fame to morrow will appear.
Dryden from Ovid. Met. l. 15.
1. TH HERE's no fich Thing as Pleasure here,
'Tis all a perfect Cheat,
Which does but shine and disappear,
Whose Charm is but deceit :
The enipty Bribe of yielding Souls,
Which first betrays, and then controuls.
'Tis true, it looks at distance fair;
But if we do approach,
The fruit of Sodom will impair,
And Perish at a Touch :
In Being, than in Fancy, less,
And we expet more than possess.
For by our Pleasures we are cloy'd,
And fo Desire is cone;
Or elfe, like Rivers, they make side
The Channel where they run :
And either way true Bliss destroys,
Making us narrow, or our foy's.
We covet Pleasure eafity,
But it not so possess;
For many Things must make it be,
But one niay make it lefs.
Nay, were our State as we could chuse it,
Twould be consumi'd by fear to lose it.
What art thou then, thou winged Air,
More weak and swift than fame?
Whose next Successor is Despair,
And its Attendant Shame.
Th’ Experienc'd Prince than Reason had,
Who said of Pleasure, it is mad..
HESE are thy glorious Works, parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal Frame,
Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who lit'ít above these Heavens
To us inviable or dimly feen
In these thy lowest Works, yet these declare
Thy Goodness beyond Thought, and Power Divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye Sons of Light,
Angels, for ye behold hini, and with Songs
And choral Symphonies, Day without Night,
Circle his Throne Rejoycing, ye in Heaven,
On Earth joyn all ye Creatures to extol
Him first, him last, hin mid'st, and without End.
Fairest of Stars, last in the train of Night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure Pledge of Day, that crown'st the smiling Morn
With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Sphear
While Day arises, that sweet Hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great World, both Eye and Soul,
Acknowledge hin thy Greater, found his Praile
In thy Eternal Course, both when thou climb'it,
And when high Noos has't gain'd, and when thout
Moon, that now meet'i the orient Sun, now dy't
With the fix'd Stars, fix'd in their Orb that fies,
And ve five other wanaring Fires that move
In myftick Dance not without Song, refound
His praide, who cut of Darkness cali'd up Light.
Air, arid ye Elements the eldest Birth
Of Nature's Womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual Circle, Multiform, and mix
And nourish all Things, let your cealess change,
Varv to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rife
From Hill or Steaming Lake, dusky or grey,
Till the Sun paint your fleecy Skirts with Gold,
In Honour to the World's great Author rise,
Whether to deck with Clouds th’ uncolour'd Sky,
Or wet the thirsty Earth with falling Showers,
Rising or Falling still advance his praise.
His praise ye Winds that from four Quarters blow,
Breath soft or loud; and wave your Tops, ye Pines,
With every Plant, in Sign of Worship wave.
Fountains and ye, that warble, as ye How,
Melodious Murmurs, warbling tune his Praise.
Joyn Voices all ye Living Souls, ye Birds,
That singing up to Heaven Gate ascend,
Bear on your Wings; and in your Notes his praiseg;
Ye that in the Waters glide, and ye that walk
The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I-be silent, Morn or Even,
To Hill or Valley, Fountain or fresh Shade
Made Vocal by my Sog, and taught his Praise. -
Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still
To give us only good, and if the Night
Have gather'd ought of Evil; or conceald,
Disperse it, as now Light dispels the Dark.
Milton's Paradise Loft, L. so.
Baucis and Philemon. Imitated from the Sth Book
By Jonathan Swift, D. D.
IN ancient Times, as Story tells,
The Saints would often leave their Celis,
And strole about, but hide their Qvality,
To try good People's Hospitality.
It happend on a Winter Night
As Authors of the Legend write;
Two Brother Hermits, Saints by Trade,
Taking their Tour in Malquerade,
Disguis'd in tatter'd Habits went
To a fall Village down in Kent :
Where, in the Strolers canting strain,
They begg'd from Door to Door in vain;
Try'd ev'ry Tone might Pity win,
But not a Soul would let 'em in.
Our wand'ring Saints in woful State;
Treated at this ungodly Rate
Having thro’all the Village passidy
To a small Cottage canie at last
Where dwelt a good old honeft Yeoman,
Calld in the Neighbourhood Philemon.
Who kindly did the Saints invite
In his poor Hut to pass the Night;
And then the Hospitable Sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the Fire :
While he from out of Chimney took
A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook,
And freely from the fatteft Side
Cut out large Slices to be fry'd :
Then step'd afide to fetch them Drinking
Fill'd a large Jug up to the Brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found,
'Twas ftill replenish’d'to the Top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a Drop.
The good old Couple was amaz’d,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighted to the Heart,
And just began to cry;
Then softly turn'd alide to View,
Whether the Lights were burning Blue.
The gentle Pilgrims soon aware on't
Told 'em their Calling and their Errant:
Good Folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but Saints the Hermits said,