Some to remain, and fome to perish soon;
Or wane and wax alternate like the moon.
Around, a thousand winged wonders fly,
Born by the trumpet's blast, and scatter'd thro' the sky.
There, at one paffage, oft' you might furvey

A lye and truth contending for the

way;

And long 'twas doubtful, both so closely pent,
Which first should iffue thro' the narrow vent:
At laft agreed, together out they fly,
Infeparable now, the truth and lye;

The strict companions are for ever join'd,

And this or that unmix'd, no mortal e'er fhall find. While thus I ftood, intent to fee and hear,

One came, methought, and whisper'd in my ear :
What could thus high thy rash ambition raise?
Art thou, fond youth, a candidate for praise?

'Tis true, faid I, not void of hopes I came,
For who fo fond as youthful bards of fame?
But few, alas! the cafual bleffing boast,
So hard to gain, so easy to be lost:
How vain that fecond life in others breath,
Th'eftate which wits inherit after death!

Ease,

Eafe, health, and life, for this we must refign,
(Unfure the tenour, but how vaft the fine!)
The great man's curfe, without the gains, endure,
Be envy'd, wretched, and be flatter'd, poor;
All lucklefs wits our enemies profest,

And all fuccefsful, jealous friends are best.
Nor Fame I flight, nor for her favours call;
She comes unlook'd for, if fhe comes at all.
But if the purchase costs fo dear a price,
As foothing folly, or exalting vice :

Oh! if the Muse must flatter lawless fway,
And follow still where fortune leads the way;
Or if no bafis bear my rifing name,

But the fal'n ruins of another's fame:

at

Then teach me heav'n! to fcorn the guilty bays;
Drive from my breast that wretched luft of praise;
Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown;
Oh grant an honest fame, or grant me none!

ure

JANUARY and MAT;

OR,

The Merchant's Tale,

FROM

CHAUCER.