Then welcome bufinefs, welcome ftrife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life;
The vifage wan, the pore-blind fight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night;
The tedious forms, the folemn prate,
The pert difpute, the dull debate;
The drowzy bench, the babbling hall;
For thee, fair Juftice, welcome all!
Thus tho' my noon of life be pafs'd,
Yet let my fetting fun, at last,
Find out the ftill, the rural cell,
Where fage Retirement loves to dwell!
There let me tafte the home felt blifs
Of innocence, and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe;
Uncurs'd amid the harpy-tribe;
No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
My honour, and my confcience clear:
Thus may I calmly meet my end,

Thus to the grave in peace

defcend!

VISION S

FOR THE

ENTERTAINMENT AND INSTRUCTION OF YOUNGER MINDS.

A

BY DR. COTTON.

Virginibus puerifque canto.

TO THE READER.

UTHORS, you know, of greatest fame,

Thro' modesty suppress their name *;

And wou'd you with me to reveal

HOR.

What these superior Wits conceal?

Though Dr. Cotton is well-known to have been the author of thefe ViGods, they have hitherto been published without prefixing his name.

Forego

Forego the fearch, my curious friend,

And husband time to better end.
All my ambition is, I own,

To profit and to please unknown;
Like ftreams fupply'd from fprings below,
Which featter bleffings as they flow.

Were you difeas'd, or 'prefs'd with pain,
Straight you'd apply to Warwick Lane:
The thoughtful doctor feels your pulse,
(No matter whether Mead or Hulfe)
Writes Arabic to you and me-
Then figns his hand, and takes his fee.
Now, fhould the fage omit his name,
Would not the cure remain the same ?
Not but phyficians fign their bill,
Or when they cure, or when they kill.
'Tis often known, the mental race
Their fond ambitious fires difgrace.
Dar'd I avow a parent's claim,

Criticks might fneer, and friends might blame.
This dang'rous fecret let me hide,

I'll tell you ev'ry thing befide:
Not that it boots the world a tittle,
Whether the author's big or little;
Or whether fair, or black, or brown!
No writer's hue concerns the town.

I pass the filent rural hour,

No flave to wealth, no tool to pow'r :
My manfion's warm, and very neat ;

t.

The

The faithful mastiff is my guard,
The feather'd tribes adorn my yard;
Alive my joy, my treat when dead,
And their foft plumes improve my bed.
My cow rewards me all fhe can;
(Brutes leave ingratitude to man)
She, daily thankful to her lord,
Crowns, with nectareous fweets, my board.
Am I difeas'd-the cure is known,
Her fweeter juices mend my own.

I love my house, and feldom roam;
Few visits please me more than home.
I pity that unhappy elf

Who loves all company but felf;
By idle paffions borne away
To op'ra, masquerade, or play;
Fond of those hives where folly reigns,
And Britain's peers receive her chains;
Where the pert virgin flights a name,
And fcorns to redden into shame.
But know, my fair, (to whom belong
The poet and his artlefs fong)
When female cheeks refuse to glow,
Farewel to virtue here below.
Our fex is loft to ev'ry rule,
Our fole distinction, knave or fool.
'Tis to your innocence we run;
Save us, ye fair, or we're undone:
Maintain your modesty and station,
So women shall preserve the nation.

Mothers, 'tis faid, in days of old,
Efteem'd their girls more choice than gold;
Too well a daughter's worth they knew,
To make her cheap by publick view:
(Few, who their diamonds value weigh,
Expose those diamonds ev'ry day.)

Then,

Then, if Sir Plume drew near, and smil'd,
The parent trembled for her child:

The first advance alarm'd her breast;
And fancy pictur'd all the reft.
But now no mother fears a foe,

No daughter fhudders at a beau.
Pleasure is all the reigning theme,
Our noon-day thought, our midnight dream.
In Folly's chace our youths engage,
And fhameless crowds of tott'ring age.
The die, the dance, th' intemp'rate bowl,
With various charms ingrofs the foul.
Are gold, fame, health, the terms of vice?
The frantick tribes fhall pay the price.
But tho' to ruin poft they run,
They'll think it hard to be undone.

Do not arraign my want of tafte,

Or fight to ken where joys are plac'd.
They widely err, who think me blind,
And I difclaim a ftoick's mind.

Like yours are my fenfations quite;
I only strive to feel aright.

My joys, like ftreams, glide gently by,
Tho' fmall their channel, never dry;
Keep a ftill, even, fruitful wave,

And blefs the neighb'ring meads they lave.
My fortune (for I'll mention all,
And more than you dare tell) is fmall;
Yet ev'ry friend partakes my ftore,
And Want goes fmiling from my door.
Will forty fhillings warm the breast
Of Worth or Induftry diftrefs'd;
This fum I chearfully impart,

'Tis fourfcore pleasures to my heart;
And you may make, by means like these,

Five talents ten, whene'er you please.

'Tis true my little purfe grows light;
But then I fleep fo fweet at night!
This grand fpecifick will prevail,
When all the doctor's opiates fail.
You ask what party I purfue;

Perhaps you mean, • Whose fool are you ?
The names of party I deteft,

Badges of flavery at beft

I've too much grace to play the knave,

And too much pride to turn a flave.

4

I love my country from my foul,

And grieve when knaves or fools controul.
I'm pleas'd when vice and folly smart,
Or at the gibbet or the cart:

Yet always pity, where I can;
Abhor the guilt, but mourn the man.

Now the religion of your poet,
Does not this little preface show it?
My Visions if you scan with care,
'Tis ten to one you'll find it there.
And if my actions fuit my fong,
You can't in confcience think me wrong.

SLAN DE R.

INSCRIBED TO MISS

VISION I.

My lovely girl, I write for you,

And pray believe my vifions true;

They'll form your mind to ev'ry grace,
They'll add new beauties to your face;
And when old age impairs your prime,
You'll triumph o'er the spoils of time.