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From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs :
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heart-felt joys.

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;

And they are fools who roam:

The world has nothing to bestow,
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When, with impatient wing, she left
That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursion o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explor❜d the sacred bark.

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know,

That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutor❜d right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise;

We'll form their minds with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies,

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs;

They'll grow in virtue every day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.

No borrow'd joys! they are 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 bless our humbler 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 may suffice,

And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content,
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,

Nor aim beyond our pow'r;

For if our stock be very small, ́ "Tis prudence to enjoy it all, Nor lose the present hour.

To be resign'd, when ills betide,
Patient, when favours are deny'd,

And pleas'd with favours giv'n;
Dear Chloe, this is Wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance smells to Heav'n.

We'll ask no long protracted treat,
(Since winter life is seldom sweet)
But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise,

Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes,
The relics of our store.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll
Its chequer'd paths of joy and wo,

With cautious steps we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble, or a fear,

And mingle with the dead:


While Conscience, like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,

And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.




THANKS, dear coquet! indulgent cheat!
Kind heaven, and your more kind deceit,
At length have set me free;

No more I sigh, and doat, and pine,
All ease without, and calm within,
In peace and liberty.

Cupid no more has power to scorch,
Time sure has rob'd him of his torch,
Ne'er was a cooler creature:

That name no more has such eclat,

No more my

heart goes pit-a-pat

At sight of each dear feature.

I sleep at night, and sometimes dream, you the fond vexatious theme;


I wake, nor think about you: I meet, I leave you, meet again, But feel no mighty joy or pain,

Or with you, or without you.

Now with indifference I chat
Of eyes, lips, bubbies, and all that,
And laugh at former follies:
Joke with my rival when we meet,
What eye so keen! what lips so sweet!
What skin so soft as Molly's!.

Leave then those little torturing arts,
You practice on complying hearts;
They're all in vain, believe me:
Whether those eyes look kind, or weep, '
The pouting, or the smiling lip,

Will neither please, nor grieve me.

From those despotic looks, no more
(Once tyrants of each fickle hour)
I date my grief and joy:

May, though you frown, looks sweetly clad;
And dull December's mighty sad,

Though you stand smiling by.,

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