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

CXVI.

WINTER.

LAST Winter creeps along with tardy Pace,

Sour is his Front, and furrow'd is his Face; His Scalp if not difhonour'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 Pleafure.

1.

THERE's no fitch Thing as Pleasure here,
'Tis all a perfect Cheat,

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

2.

'Tis true, it looks at diftance fair;

But if we do approach,

The fruit of Sodom will impair,
And Perish at a Touch:

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

3:

For by our Pleafures 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,
narrow, or our Joys.

Making

4.

We covet Pleasure eafily,

But it not fo poffefs;

For many Things mult make it be,
But one may make it lefs.

Nay, were our State as we could chufe it,
Twould be confum'd by fear to lose it.

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What art thou then, thou winged Air,
More weak and fwift than fame?
Whofe next Succeffor is Defpair,
And its Attendant Shame.

Th' Experienc'd Prince than Reafon had,

Who faid of Pleasure, it is mad..

Mrs. Philips.

CXVIII.

ADAM's Prayer.

TH HESE are thy glorious Works, parent of good,

Almighty, thine this univerfal Frame,

Thus wondrous fair; thy felf how wondrous then!. Unfpeakable, who fit'ft above thefe Heavens

To us invisible or dimly feen

In thefe thy loweft Works, yet thefe declare
Thy Goodness beyond Thought, and Power Divine.
Speak ye who beft 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 firft, him laft, him mid'ft, and without End.
Faireft of Stars, laft 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, praife him in thy Sphear
While Day ariles, that fweet Hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great World, both Eye and Soul,
Acknowledge him thy Greater, found his Praile
In thy Eternal Courfe, 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't
With the fix'd Stars, fix'd in their Orb that flies,
And ye five other wandring Fires that move
In myftick Dance not without Song, refound
His praife, who out of Darkness call'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,
Vary to our great Maker ftill new praise.
Ye Mifts 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 thirfty Earth with falling Showers,
Rifing or Falling ftill advance his praise.

His praise ye Winds that from four Quarters blow,
Breath foft 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 Praife.
Joyn Voices all ye Living Souls, ye Birds,
That finging up to Heaven Gate afcend,
Bear on your Wings; and in your Notes his praife,
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 univerfal Lord, be bounteous ftill
To give us only good, and if the Night
Have gather'd ought of Evil, or conceal'd,
Difperfe it, as now Light difpels the Dark.

Milton's Paradife Loft, L. 5. .

CXIX.

Baucis and Philemon. Imitated from the 8th Book

IN

of Ovid.

By Jonathan Swift, D. D:

ancient Times, as Story tells,

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

Difguis'd

Difguis'd in tatter'd Habits went
To a finall 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 pafs'd,
To a fmall Cottage came at laft;
Where dwelt a good old honeft Yeoman,
Call'd in the Neighbourhood Philemon.
Who kindly did the Saints invite
In his poor Hut to pafs the Night;
And then the Hofpitable 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 ftep'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 foftly turn'd afide 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;

No

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