Approach'd with round unthinking face,
And thus the trifler ftates her cafe.

She said that Love's complaints, 'twas known,
Exactly tally'd with her own;

That Wealth had learn'd the felon's arts,
And robb'd her of a thousand hearts;
Defiring judgment against Wealth,
For falfhood, perjury, and stealth:
All which fhe could on oath depofe,
And hop'd the court would flit his nose.

But Hymen, when he heard her name,
Call'd her an interloping dame;
Look'd thro' the crowd with angry ftate,
And blam'd the porter at the gate,
For giving entrance to the fair,

When she was nó effential there.

To fink this haughty tyrant's pride,
He order'd Fancy to prefide.
Hence, when debates on beauty rife,
And each bright fair difputes the prize,
To Fancy's court we ftraight apply,
And wait the fentence of her eye;
In Beauty's realms the holds the feals,
And her awards preclude appeals.

L

LIFE.

VISION VIII..

ET not the young my precepts shun;
Who flight good counfels are undone.

Your poet fung of love's delights,

Of halcyon days and joyous nights;

To the gay fancy lovely themes;

And fain I'd hope they're more than dreams.

But,

But, if you please, before we part,

I'd speak a language to your heart.
We'll talk of Life, tho' much I fear
Th' ungrateful tale will wound your ear.
You raise your fanguine thoughts too high,
And hardly know the reason why:

But fay Life's tree bears golden fruit,
Some canker shall corrode the root;
Some unexpected ftorm fhall rife;
Or fcorching funs, or chilling skies;
And (if experienc'd truths avail)
All your autumnal hopes shall fail.

But, poet, whence such wide extremes ?
• Well may you ftyle your labours dreams.
A fon of forrow thou, I ween,

• Whose Visions are the brats of Spleen. Is blifs a vague, unmeaning name?—

Speak then the paffions use or aim:

Why rage defires without controut,

• And rouze fuch whirlwinds in the foul?

Why Hope erects her tow'ring creft,

And laughs, and riots in the breaft?

Think not, my weaker brain turns round;

• Think not, I tread on fairy ground;

Think not, your pulfe alone beats true-
Mine makes as healthful mufick too.
Our joys, when Life's foft fpring we trace,
< Put forth their early buds apace.

What faid the gay, unthinking boy!-
Methought Hilario talk'd of joy!
Tell, if thou canft, whence joys arise,
Or what those mighty joys you prize.
You'll find (and trust fuperior years)
The vale of life a vale of tears.
Could wisdom teach,, where joys abound,
Or riches purchase them, when found,
Would scepter'd Solomon complain,
That all was fleeting, falfe, and vain;
Yet fcepter'd Solomon could say,
Returning clouds obfcur'd his day.
Thofe maxims which the preacher drew,
The royal fage experienc'd true.
He knew the various ills that wait
Our infant and meridian state;

That toys our earliest thoughts engage,
And diff'rent toys maturer age;
That grief at ev'ry stage appears,
But diff'rent griefs at diff'rent years;
That vanity is feen, in part,

Infcrib'd on ev'ry human heart;

In the child's breast the spark began,

Grows with his growth, and glares in man.

But when in life we journey late,

If follies die, do griefs abate?

Ah! what is life at fourfcore years—

One dark, rough road, of fighs, groans, pains, and tears!
Perhaps you'll think I act the fame

As a fly sharper plays his game:
You triumph ev'ry deal that's past,
He's fure to triumph at the laft;
Who often wins fome thousands more
Than twice the fums you won before.
But I'm a lofer, with the reft;
For life is all a deal, at beft;
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Where

Where not the prize of wealth or fame,
Repays the trouble of the game:

(A truth no winner e'er deny'd,
An hour before that winner dy'd.)
Not that with me thefe prizes fhine,
For neither fame nor wealth are mine.
My cards!-a weak plebeian band,
With scarce an honour in my hand.
And fince my trumps are very few,
What have I more to boast than you?
Nor am I gainer by your fall;
That harlot, Fortune, bubbles all!

'Tis truth, (receive it ill or well) 'Tis melancholy truth I tell.

Why should the preacher take your pence,
And fmother truth to flatter fenfe?
I'm fure phyficians have no merit,
Who kill, thro' lenity of fpirit.

That life's a game, divines confess;
This fays at cards, and that at chefs :
But if our views be center'd here,

'Tis all a lofing game, I fear.

Sailors, you know, when wars obtain, And hoftile veffels croud the main,

If they discover from afar

A bark as diftant as a ftar,

Hold the perspective to their eyes,

To learn it's colours, ftrength, and fize; And when this fecret once they know, Make ready to receive the foe.

(For know, that Fancy, like a sprite,
Prefers the filent scenes of night.)
She lodg'd me in a neighb'ring wood,
No matter where the thicket ftood;
The Genius of the place was nigh,
And held two pictures to my eye.
The curious painter had portray'd
Life in each juft and genuine shade.
They, who have only known it's dawn,
May think these lines too deeply drawn ;
But riper years, I fear, will fhew
The wiser artists paint too true.

One piece presents a rueful wild,
Where not a fummer's fun had fmil'd:
The road with thorns is cover'd wide,
And Grief fits weeping by the fide;
Her tears with constant tenor flow,
And form a mournful lake below;
Whofe filent waters, dark and deep,
Thro' all the gloomy valley creep.
Paffions that flatter, or that flay,
Are beasts that fawn, or birds that prey.
Here Vice affumes the ferpent's fhape;
There Folly perfonates the ape:

Here Av'rice gripes with harpies claws;
There Malice grins with tiger's jaws;
While fons of mischief, art and guile,
Are alligators of the Nile.

E'en Pleasure acts a treach'rous part,
She charms the sense, but stings the heart.
And when the gulls us of our wealth,
Or that fuperior pearl, our health;
Reftores us nought but pains and woe,
And drowns us in the lake below.

There a commiffion'd angel ftands,
With defolation in his hands!
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