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Nor could he like his present place,
He ne'er lov'd water in his days.
At length he takes a second bout,
Enough to turn him inside out:
With vehemence so sore he strains,
As would have split another's brains.
“ Ah! here the Cobbler comes, I swear!”
And truth it was, for he was there;
And, like a rude ill-manner'd clown,
Kick'd, with his foot, the vomit down.
The patient, now grown wond'rous light,
Whipt off the napkin from his sight;
Briskly lift up his head, and knew
The breeches and the jerkin's hue;
And smild to hear him grumbling say,
As down the stairs he ran away,
He'd ne'er set foot within his door,
And jump down open throats no more:
No, while he liv'd, he'd ne'er again
Run, like a fox, down the red lane,
Our patient thus (his inmate gone)
Cured of the crotchets in his crown,
Joyful, his gratitude expresses,
With thousand thanks and hundred pieces ;
And thus, with much of pains and cost,
Regain'd the health-he never lost.

THOMAS WARTON.

BORN 1687.-DIED 1745..

THOMAS WARTON, the elder, father of Joseph and Thomas Warton, was of Magdalen College, Oxford, vicar of Basingstoke and Cobham, and twice chosen Poetry Professor.

RETIREMENT.

AN ODE,

On beds of daisies idly laid,
The willow waving o'er my head,
Now morning, on the bending stem,
Hangs the round and glittering gem,
Lulld by the lapse of yonder spring,
Of nature's various charms I sing :
Ambition, pride, and pomp, adieu,
For what has joy to do with you?

or

Joy, rose-lipt dryad, loves to dwell
In sunny field

cell;
Delights on echoing hills to hear
The reaper's song, or lowing steer;
Or view, with tenfold plenty spread,
The crowded corn-field, blooming mead;

mossy

While beauty, health, and innocence,
Transport the eye, the soul, the sense.

Not fresco'd roofs, not beds of state,
Not guards that round a monarch wait;
Not crowds of flatterers can scare,
From loftiest courts, intruding Care.
Midst odours, splendors, banquets, wine,
While minstrels sound, while tapers shine,
In sable stole sad Care will come,
And darken the sad drawing-room.

Nymphs of the groves, in

green array'd,
Conduct me to your thickest shade;
Deep in the bosom of the vale,
Where haunts the lonesome nightingale ;
Where Contemplation, maid divine,
Leans against some aged pine,
Wrapt in solemn thought profound,
Her eyes fixt stedfast on the ground.

Oh, virtue's nurse,

retired queen, By saints alone and hermits seen, Beyond vain mortal wishes wise, Teach me St. James's to despise; For what are crowded courts, but schools For fops, or hospitals for fools ; Where slaves and madmen, young and old, Meet to adore some calf of gold ?

VERSES WRITTEN A FTER SEEING WINDSOR

CASTLE.

From beauteous Windsor's high and story'd halls,
Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls,
To my low cot, from ivory beds of state,
Pleas'd I return, unenvious of the great.
So the bee ranges o'er the vary'd scenes
Of corn, of heaths, of fallows, and of greens,
Pervades the thicket, soars above the hill,
Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill;
Now haunts old hollow'd oaks, deserted cells,
Now seeks the low vale-lily's silver bells ;
Sips the warm fragrance of the greenhouse bowers,
And tastes the myrtle and the citron flowers;
At length returning to the wonted comb,
Prefers to all his little straw-built home.

AN AMERICAN LOVE ODE,

FROM THE SECOND VOLUME OF MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS.

STAY, stay, thou lovely, fearful snake,
Nor hide thee in yon darksome brake :
But let me oft thy charms review,
Thy glittering scales, and golden hue ;
From these a chaplet shall be wove,
To grace the youth I dearest love.

Then ages hence, when thou no more
Shalt creep along the sunny shore,

Thy copy'd beauties shall be seen;
Thy red and azure mix'd with green,
In mimic folds thou shalt display:-
Stay, lovely, fearful adder, stay.

THOMAS SOUTHERN Was born in Dublin, in the year 1660, and died in 1746.

FROM THE TRAGEDY OF ISABELLA.

ACT IV. SCENE IJ.

Isabella meeting with Biron after her marriage with Villeroy.

Enter Nurse. Nurse. MADAM, the gentleman's below. Isabella. I had forgot; pray let me speak with him.

[Exit Nurse, This ring was the first present of my love To Biron, my first husband; I must blush To think I have a second. Biron died (Still to my loss) at Candy; there's my hope. Oh, do I live to hope that he died there? It must be so: he's dead, and this ring left By his last breath to some known faithful friend, To bring me back again :

[Biron introduced Nurse retires. That's all I have to trust to

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