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From the gay world we'll oft retire
Where love our hours employs :
To spoil our heart-felt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
And they are fools who roam :
And that dear hut, our home.
Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
That safe retreat, the ark;
Explor'd the sacred bark.
Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know, That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.
Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
Whence pleasures ever rise;
And train them for the skies,
While they our wisest hours engage,
And crown our hoary hairs;
recompense our cares.
No borrow'd joys! they are all our own, While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot: Monarchs! we envy not your state, We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humbler lot.
Our portion is not large, indeed,
For nature's calls are few :
We'll therefore relish with content,
Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
Nor lose the present hour.
To be resign'd, when ills betide,
And pleas'd with favours giv'n;
Whose fragrance smells to Heav'n.
We'll ask no long protracted treat, (Since winter life is seldom sweet)
But when our feast is o'er, Grateful from table we'll arise, Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.
Thus hand in hand through life we'll go, Its chequer'd paths of joy and wo,
With cautious steps we'll tread; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble, or a fear,
And mingle with the dead:
While Conscience, like a faithful friend,
And cheer our dying breath ;
And smooth the bed of death.
THE TRIUMPH OF INDIFFERENCE.
IMITATED FROM METASTASIO.
At length have set me free;
In peace and liberty.
Cupid no more has power to scorch,
Ne'er was a cooler creature:
At sight of each dear feature.
I sleep at night, and sometimes dream,
the fond vexatious theme;
Or with you, or without you.
Now with indifference I chat
And laugh at former follies :
What skin so soft as Molly's! .
Leave then those little torturing arts, ,
They're all in vain, believe me:
Will neither please, nor grieve me.
From those despotic looks, no more (Once tyrants of each fickle hour)
I date my grief and joy: May, though you frown, looks sweetly clad; And dull December's mighty sad, Though you stand smiling by.,