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Who teach the mind it's proper force to scan,
Yet, hapless Artist ! tho' thy skill can raise The bursting peal of universal praise, Tho' at thy beck Applause delighted stands, And lists, Briareus' like, her hundred hands, Know, Fame awards thee but a partial breath! Not all thy talents brave the stroke of death. , Poets to ages yet unborn appeal, And latest times th’ Eternal Nature feel. Tho' blended here the praise of bard and play's, While more than half becomes the Actor's share, Relentless death untwists the mingled fame, And sinks the player in the poet's name. The pliant muscles of the various face, The mien that gave each sentence strength and grace, The tuneful voice, the eye that spoke the mind, Are gone, nor leave a single trace behind.
CITS COUNTRY BOX,
Vos sapere d. solos aio bene vivere, quorum,
The wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,
While Madam doats upon the trees,
What signify the loads of wealth, Without that richest jewel, health? Excuse the fondness of a wife, Who doats upon your precious life! Such ceaseless toil, such constant care, Is more than human strength can bear. One may observe it in your
faceIndeed, my dear, you break apace: And nothing can your health repairy But exercise and country air. Sir Traffic bas a house, you know, About a mile from Cheney-Row; He's a good man, indeed 'tis true, But not so warm, my dear, as you: And folks are always apt to sneerOne would not be out-done my dear!
Sir Traffic's name so well apply'd Awak'd his brother merchant's pride; And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmost deference to his wife,
Confess’d her arguments had reason, And by th' approaching summer season, Draws a few hundreds from the stocks, And purchases his Country Box.
Some three or four mile out of town, (An hour's ride will bring you down,) He fixes on his choice abode, Not half a furlong from the road : And so convenient does it lay, The stages, pass it ev'ry day : And then so snug, so mighty pretty, To have an house so near the city! Take but your places at the Boar, You're set down at the very door.
Well then, suppose them fix'd at last, White-washing, painting, scrubbing past, Hugging themselves in ease and clover, With all the fuss of moving over ; Lo, a new heap of whims are bred! And wanton in my lady's head.
Well to be sure, it must be own'd, It is a charming spot of ground;
So sweet a distance for a ride,