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If merit pines away forgot,
If rakes at sacred honours sneer,
Say, what conclusion's to be drawn,
Soon the election may be made—
Let's square our lives by reason's rules,
So far be fashion's modes obey'd,
But let us not be fashion's fools.
Quam rara est fortuna Geta? cum deficit unda Potat aquam, sed si sufficit unda, merum.
SAYS the miller, how odd is this fortune of mine, When my stream's low, I drink it-when high, I drink wine.
THE poet says, that love's like fire,
That warms and that expands our hearts:
And horror marks its trackless way: Thus both we dread, and both admire, Thus poets say that love's like fire.
The toper says, that love's like wine,
And that its pow'r, 'bove human ken, Can lift the soul, and so refine
Our joys, that gods might envy men: But from this elevation sunk,
The moment reason leaves the feast,
Is little better than a beast:
Your sportsmen 'say, love's like the chase,
But when his pleasures with his toil
Are fairly counted, what's the gain! Fatigu'd, and tir'd, he makes a coil, And puts up game not worth the pain: Thus love's without a goal, a race, Thus sportsmen say, love's like a chase.
True lovers say, love's like the devil,
Who turns a hundred devious ways, With saint-like face, and heart of evil,
And smiles the most when he betrays: Does not the devil take ev'ry hue,
And in all forms and fashions move?
And hot, and cold?and so is love:
Let carping ideots still condemn,
And in the object of their choice:
Let him but chuse a faithless fair;
LOVE AND INDUSTRY.
SHARE my cottage, dearest maid! Beneath a mountain wide and high, It nestles in a silent glade,
And Wye's clear current wanders by. Each tender care, each honest art,
Shall chase all future want from thee; When thy sweet lips consent impart,
To climb these steepy hills with me.
Far from the city's vain parade,
No scornful brow shall there be seen; No dull impertinence invade,
Nor envy base, nor sullen spleen. The shadowy rocks, that circle round, From storms shall guard our sylvan cell; And there shall ev'ry joy be found,
That loves in peaceful vales to dwell.
When late the tardy sun shall peer,
And our clean hearth is bright with fire; Sweet tales to read, sweet tales to sing,
O! they shall drown the wind and rain, E'en till the soften'd season bring
The merry spring-time back again.
Then hawthorn's flow'ring in the glen,
Shall guard the warbling plumy throng; Nor boast the busy haunts of men
So fair a scene, so sweet a song.
Ne'er doubt our wheaten ears will rise,
And full their yellow harvest glow;
Shall still be spent in pleasing thee.
AN IDEA ON A PECK OF COALS.
I BUY my Coals by Pecks, that we