Tho' fingularity and pride,
Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our our own family and fire,
Where love our hours employs;
No noify neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling ftranger near,
To spoil our heart-felt joys.
If folid happiness we prize,
Within our breasts this jewel lies ;
And they are fools who roam :
The world has nothing to beftow?
From our own felves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut-our home.
Of reft was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing fhe left
That safe retreat—the ark ;
Giving her vain excursion o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explor'd the facred bark.
Tho' fools fpurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By fweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good,
Our babes fhall richest comforts bring,
If tutor'd right, they'll prove a fpring
Whence pleasures ever rise :
We'll form their minds, with ftudious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.
While they our wifest hours engage,
They'l joy our youth, fupport our age,
And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompenfe our cares.
No borrow'd joys; they're 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 blefs our humble lot.
Our portion is not large indeed,
But then how little do we need,
For nature's calls are few!
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than to fuffice,
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relish with content,
Whate'er kind Providence has fent,
Nor aim beyond our pow'r :
For if our ftock be very small,. "Tis prudence to enjoy it all, Nor lofe the present hour.
To be refign'd, when ills betide,
Patient, when favours are deny'd,
And pleas'd with favours giv'n :-
Dear Chloe, this is wifdom's part,
This is that incenfe of the heart
Whose fragrance fmells to heav'n..
We'll ask no long protracted treat,
(Since winter life is feldom sweet);
But when our feaft is o'er:
Grateful from table we'll retire,
Nor grudge our fons with envious eyes:
The relics of our store.
Thus hand in hand thro' life we'll go,
Its checquer'd paths of joy and woe,
With cautious steps we'll tread:
Quit its vain fcenes without a tear,,
Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead..
While confcience, like a faithful friend,.
Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend,
And chear our dying breath :
Shall,, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,.
And smooth the bed of death..
My lovely girl, I write for you;
And pray believe my vifions true;
They'll form your mind to every grace;
They'll add new beauties to your
face:
And when old age impairs your prime,
You'll triumph o'er the fpoils of time.
Childhood and youth engage my pen, 'Tis labour loft to talk to men.
Youth may, perhaps, reform, when wrong.
Age will not listen to my fong.
He who at fifty is a fool,
Is far too stubborn grown for school.
What is that vice which ftill prevails,
When almost every paffion fails;
Which with our very dawn begun,
Nor ends, but with our fetting fun;
Which, like a noxious weed, can fpoil
The faireft flow'rs, and choak the foil?
'Tis Slander,and, with fhame I own,
The vice of human-kind alone.
Be Slander then my leading dream,
Tho' you're a ftranger to the theme;
Thy fofter breaft, and honeft heart,
Scorn the defamatory art ;
Thy foul afferts her native skies,
Nor asks detraction's wings to rife;
In foreign spoils let others shine,
Intrinfic excellence is thine.
The bird, in peacock's plumes who shone,
Could plead no merit of her own:
The filly theft betray'd her pride,
And spoke her poverty befide.
Th' infidious fland'ring thief is worfe Than the poor rogue who steals your purse. Say, he purloins your glitt'ring store;
⚫ Who takes your gold, takes trash'—no more ; Perhaps he pilfers-to be fed
Ah! guiltless wretch, who steals for bread !
But the dark villain, who fhall aim
To blaft, my fair, thy fpotlefs name,
He'd fteal a precious gem away,
Steal what both Indies can't repay!
Here the strong pleas of want are vain,
Or the more impious pleas of gain.
No finking family to fave!
No gold to glut th' infatiate knave!
Improve the hint of Shakespeare's tongue, "Twas thus immortal Shakespeare fung.
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