More than mature, and tending to decay,
When our brown Locks repine to mix with odious grey.

CXVI.

WINTER.

LAS AST Winter creeps along with tardy Pace,
Sour is his Front, and furrow'd is his Face;

His Scalp if not dishonour'd quite of Hair,
The ragged Fleece is thin, and thin is worse than bare.
Ev'n our own Bodies daily change receive,
Some part of what was theirs before, they leave;
Nor are to day what yesterday they were,
Nor the whole fame to morrow will appear.

Dryden from Ovid. Met. 1. 15.

CXVII.

Against Pleasure.

1.

THERE's no fuch Thing as Pleasure here,

'Tis all a perfect Cheat,

Which does but shine and disappear,
Whose Charm is but deceit:
The empty Bribe of yielding Souls,
Which first betrays, and then controuls.

2.

'Tis true, it looks at distance fair;

But if we do approach,
The fruit of Sodom will impair,
And Perish at a Touch:

In Being, than in Fancy, less,
And we expect more than poffefs.

3:

For by our Pleasures we are cloy'd,
And fo Defire is done;
Or elfe, like Rivers, they make wide
The Channel where they run:
And either way true Bliss destroys,
Making us narrow, or our Joys.

4.

We covet Pleasure eafily,
But it not so poffefs;
For many Things must make it be,

But one may make it lefs.
Nay, were our State as we could chuse it,
Twould be confum'd by fear to lose it.

5.

What art thou then, thou winged Air,
More weak and swift than fame ?
Whose next Successor is Despair,
And its Attendant Shame.

Th' Experienc'd Prince than Reason had,
Who faid of Pleasure, it is mad..

:

Mrs. Philips.

CXVIII.

ADAM'S Prayer.

THESE are thy glorious Works, parent of good,
Almighty, thine this universal Frame,
Thus wondrous fair; thy self how wondrous then!
Unspeakable, who sit'st above these Heavens

To us invisible or dimly seen
In these thy lowest Works, yet these declare
Thy Goodness beyond Thought, and Power Divine.
Speak ye who best can tell, ye Sons of Light,
Angels, for ye behold him, and with Songs
And choral Symphonies, Day without Night,
Circle his Throne Rejoycing, ye in Heaven,
On Earth joyn all ye Creatures to extol
Him first, him last, himm mid'st, and without End.
Fairest of Stars, last in the train of Night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure Pledge of Day, that crown'st the smiling Morn
With thy bright Circlet, praise him in thy Sphear
While Day arifes, that sweet Hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great World, both Eye and Soul,
Acknowledge him thy Greater, found his Praife
In thy Eternal Course, both when thou climb'ft,
And when high Noon has't gain'd, and when thou
fall'ft.

Moon, that now meet'ft the orient Sun, now fly'st
With the fix'd Stars, fix'd in their Orb that flies,
And ve five other wandring Fires that move
In myftick Dance not without Song, refound
His praise, who out of Darkness cali'd up Light.
Air, and ye Elements the eldest Birth
Of Nature's Womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual Circle, Multiform; and mix
And nourish all Things, let your ceafless change,
Varv to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye Mists and Exhalations that now rife
From Hill or Steaming Lake, dusky or grey,
Till the Sun paint your fleecy Skirts with Gold,
In Honour to the World's great Author rife,
Whether to deck with Clouds th' uncolour'd Sky,
Or wet the thirsty Earth with falling Showers,
Rifing or Falling still advance his praife.

His praise ye Winds that from four Quarters blow,
Breath soft or loud; and wave your Tops, ye Pines,
With every Plant, in Sign of Worship wave.
Fountains and ye, that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious Murmurs, warbling tune his Praise.
Joyn Voices all ye Living Souls, ye Birds,
That finging up to Heaven Gate ascend,

Bear on your Wings; and in your Notes his praise,
Ye that in the Waters glide, and ye that walk
The Earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be filent, Morn or Even,
To Hill or Valley, Fountain or fresh Shade
Made Vocal by my Song, and taught his Praise...
Hail universal Lord, be bounteous still
To give us only good; and if the Night
Have gather'd ought of Evil; or conceal'd,

Difperfe it, as now Light dispels the Dark.

Milton's Paradise Lost, L. 5..

CXIX.

Baucis and Philemon. Imitated from the 8th Book of Ovid.

By Jonathan Swift, D. D:

IN ancient Times, as Story tells,

The Saints would often leave their Cells
And strole about, but hide their Qiality,
To try good People's Hospitality.
It happen'd on a Winter Night
As Authors of the Legend write;
Two Brother Hermits, Saints by Trade,
Taking their Tour in Masquerade,

:

Difguis'd

:

A

:

Disguis'd in tatter'd Habits went
To a small Village down in Kent:
Where, in the Strolers canting strain,
They begg'd from Door to Door in vain,
Try'd ev'ry Tone might Pity win,
But not a Soul would let 'em in.
Our wand'ring Saints in woful State;
Treated at this ungodly Rate
Having thro' all the Village pass'd,
To a small Cottage came at laft;
Where dwelt a good old honest Yeoman,
Call'd in the Neighbourhood Philemon.
Who kindly did the Saints invite
In his poor Hut to pass the Night;
And then the Hospitable Sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the Fire:
While he from out of Chimney took
A Flitch of Bacon off the Hook,
And freely from the fatteft Side
Cut out large Slices to be fry'd :
Then step'd afide to fetch them Drink,
Fill'd a large Jug up to the Brink,
And faw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful) they found,
'Twas ftill replenish'd to the Top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a Drop.
The good old Couple was amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighted to the Heart,
And juft began to cry; - What Art!
Then softly turn'd aside to View,
Whether the Lights were burning Blue.
The gentle Pilgrims foon aware on't
Told 'em their Calling and their Errant:
Good Folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but Saints the Hermits faid;