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III.

See how they have safely surviv'd
The frowns of a sky so severe;

Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd
Through many a turbulent year.

The charms of the late blowing rose
Seem grac'd with a livelier hue,

And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend such as you.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE

MARRIED STATE.

THE lady thus address'd her

spouse

What a mere dungeon is this house!

By no means large enough; and, was it,

Yet this dull room, and that dark closet

Those hangings, with their worn-out graces,

Long beards, long noses, and pale faces

Are such an antiquated scene,

They overwhelm me with the spleen!
Sir Humphry, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark:
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engag'd myself to be at home,

And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock strikes four.

You are so deaf, the lady cried,

(And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside)

You are so sadly deaf, my dear,

What shall I do to make you hear?

Dismiss poor Harry! he replies;
Some people are more nice than wise-
For one slight trespass all this stir?
What if he did ride whip and spur,
'Twas but a mile-your fav'rite horse
Will never look one hair the worse.

Well, I protest 'tis past all bearingChild! I am rather hard of hearing

Yes, truly-one must scream and bawl-
I tell you, you can't hear at all!

Then, with a voice exceeding low,
No matter if you hear or no.

Alas! and is domestic strife,

That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be fear'd,

As to be wantonly incurr'd,

To gratify a fretful passion,

On ev'ry trivial provocation?

The kindest and the happiest pair

Will find occasion to forbear;

And something, ev'ry day they live,

To pity, and, perhaps, forgive.

But if infirmities that fall

In common to the lot of all

A blemish or a sense impair'd—
Are crimes so little to be spar'd,

Then farewell all that must create

The comfort of the wedded state;

Instead of harmony, 'tis jar

And tumult, and intestine war.

The love that cheers life's latest stage,

Proof against sickness and old age,

Preserv'd by virtue from declension,
Becomes not weary of attention;

But lives, when that exterior grace
Which first inspir'd the flame decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
To faults compassionate or blind,
And will with sympathy endure
Those evils it would gladly cure:

But angry, coarse, and harsh expression

Shows love to be a mere profession;

Proves that the heart is none of his,

Or soon expels him if it is.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON.

AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.

I.

THE Swallows in their torpid state

Compose their useless wing,

And bees in hives as idly wait

The call of early spring.

II.

The keenest frost that binds the stream,

The wildest wind that blows,

Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,

Secure of their repose.

III.

But man, all feeling and awake,

The gloomy scene surveys;

With present ills his heart must ake,

And pant for brighter days.

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