If merit pines away forgot, If rakes at sacred honours sneer, And thus they all are fashion's fools. Say, what conclusion's to be drawn, Soon the election may be made― Let's square our lives by reason's rules, But let us not be fashion's fools. Dibdin. Quam rara est fortuna Geta? cum deficit unda Potat aquam, sed si sufficit unda, merum. TRANSLATION. SAYS the miller, how odd is this fortune of mine, When my stream's low, I drink it-when high, I drink wine. BALLAD. THE HE poet says, that love's like fire, For ev'ry purpose, and desire, That warms and that expands our hearts: But, trust this fire, where is the bound That can its devastation stay? Relentless ruin stalks around, 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, Our joys, that gods might envy men: The moment reason leaves the feast, Thus both are beastly, both divine, Your sportsmen 'say, love's like the chase, O'er mound, and hedge, and ditch, and stile: But when his pleasures with his toil Are fairly counted, what's the gain! Fatigu'd, and tir'd, he makes a coil, 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: And in all forms and fashions move? Let carping ideots still condemn, Let him but chuse a faithless fair; No Lethe to relieve his care: Let him of reason take advice, His love shall be a Paradise. Dibdin. 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, When nights are long, and frosts severe, Then hawthorn's flow'ring in the glen, So fair a scene, so sweet a song. Ne'er doubt our wheaten ears will rise, Shall still be spent in pleasing thee. Miss Seward. AN IDEA ON A PECK OF COALS. I BUY my Coals by Pecks, that we May have 'em fresh and fresh, d'ye see! |