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But all subsists by elemental strife;
And passions are the elements of Life.
The general Order, since the world began,
Is kept in Nature, and is kept in Man.

Happy the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound;
Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire ;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter, fire.
Blessed who can unconcern’dly find

Hours, days, and years, slide soft away.
In bealth of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease

Together mix'd : sweet recreation :
And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

10. WORDS.

1. Words are like leaves, and where they most abound,

Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. 2. In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold,

Alike fantastic, if too new or old.

CXXVIII. DANIEL DEFOE. Wherever God erects a house of prayer, The devil always builds a chapel there; And 'twill be found upon examination, The latter has the largest congregation,





The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime

Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time,

Producing subjects worthy fame.
In happy climes, where from the genial sun

And virgin earth, such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,

And fancied beauties by the true :
In happy climes, the seat of innocence,

Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense

The pedantry of courts and schools :
There shall be sung another golden age, ,

The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,

The wisest heads and noblest hearts.
Not such as Europe breeds in her decay ;

Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flesh did animate her clay,

By future poets shall be sung.
Westward the course of empire takes its way;

The four first acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls,
Where Edward's chiefs start from the glowing walls,
To my low cot from ivory beds of state,
Pleased I return unenvious of the great.
So the bee ranges o'er the varied 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 hollowed 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’s flowers ;
At length returning to the wonted comb,
Prefers to all his little straw-built home.


'Twas said of old how one Amphion
Could by his verses tame a lion,
And by his strange enchanting tunes
Make bears or wolves dance rigadoons,

could call the timber down,
And form it into house or town:
But it is plain that in these times
No house is raised by poet's rhymes;
They for themselves can only rear
A few wild castles in the air.
Poor are the brethren of the bays,
Down from high strains to Ekes and Ayes :
The Muses too are virgins yet,
And may be—till they portions get. .

Yet still the doating rhymer dreams,
And sings of Helicon's bright streams :
But Helicon, for all his clatter,
Yields only uninspiring water :
Yet, e'en athirst, he sweetly sings
Of Nectar and Elysian springs.




See how that pair of billing doves
With open murmurs own their loves :
And heedless of censorious eyes,
Pursue their unpolluted joys :
No fears of future want molest
The downy quiet of their nest;
No interest joined the happy pair,
Securely blest in Nature's care,
While her dear dictates they pursue :
Por constancy is nature too.

Can all the doctrine of our schools,
Our maxims, our religious rules;
Can learning to your

lives ensure
Virtue so bright, or bliss so pure ?
The great Creator's happy ends,
Virtue and pleasure ever blends ;
In vain the church and court have tried
The united essence to divide :
Alike they find their wild mistake,
The pedant priest, the giddy rake.



Of all the trades from east to west,

The cobbler's, past contending,
Is like in time to prove the best,

Which every day is mending.
How great his praise who can amend

The soles of all his neighbours,
Nor is unmindful of his end,

But to his last still labours


1. MORALS. My scheme, though mocked by knave, coquette, and fool, To thinking minds must prove this golden rule : In all pursuits--but chiefly in a wife, Not wealth, but morals, make the happy life.

2. SONG. Let other men sing of their goddesses bright, That darken the day, and enlighten the night; I sing of a woman- but such flesh and blood, One touch of her finger would do your heart good. Ten times in each day to my charmer I come, To tell her my passion, but can't, I'm struck dumb: For Cupid, he seizes my heart by surprise. And my tongue falls asleep at the sight of her eyes. Her little dog Pompey my rival I see : She kisses and hugs him, and frowns upon me: Then pr’ythee, dear Charlotte, abuse not your charm Instead of a lap-dog take me to your arms.


1. COLIN AND PHOBE. Despairing beside a clear stream

A shepherd forsaken was laid,
And while a false nymph was his theme,

A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,

To his sighs with a sigh did reply , And the brook, in return to his pain,

Ran mournfully murmuring by. Alas! silly swain that I was ;

(Thus sadly complaining he cried) When first I beheld that fair face,

'Twere better by far I had died. She talked, and I blessed her dear tongue

When she smiled, it was pleasure too great: I listened, and cried, when she sung,

Was nightingale ever so sweet ? How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve

To forsake the fine folk of the town! To think that a beauty so gay

So kind and so constant would Or go

clad like our maidens in grey,

Or live in a cottage on love! What though I have skill to complain,

Though the Muses my temples have crown'da What though, when they hear my soft strain,

The virgins sit weeping around ? Ah Colin, thy hopes are in vain,

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy fair one inclines to a swain

Whose music is sweeter than thine. All you, my companions so dear,

Who sorrow to see me betrayed, Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid. Though through the wide world I should range,

'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly ;

prove :

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