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Yet never robs the fhining bloom
Or of its beauty or perfume.
Thus the difcharg'd in ev'ry way
The various duties of the day.

It chanc'd a frugal Ant was near,
Whose brow was wrinkl'd o'er by care;
A great economist was she,
Nor lefs laborious than the Bee;
By penfive parents often taught
What ills arife from want of thought;
That poverty on floth depends;
On poverty the lofs of friends.
Hence ev'ry day the Ant is found
With anxious fteps to tread the ground;
With curious fearch to trace the grain,
And drag the heavy load with pain.

The active Bee, with pleafure, faw
The Ant fulfil her parent's law.
Ah! fifter-labourer, says she,
How very fortunate are we!
Who, taught in infancy to know

The comforts which from labour flow,
Are independent of the great,

Nor know the wants of pride and state.
Why is our food fo very fweet?
Because we earn before we eat.
Why are our wants fo very few?
Because we nature's calls purfue.
Whence our complacency of mind?
Because we act our parts affign'd.
Have we inceffant talks to do?
Is not all nature busy too?
Doth not the fun, with conftant pace,
Perfift to run his annual race?

Do not the stars, which fhine fo bright,
Renew their courfes ev'ry night?
Doth not the ox, obedient, bow
His patient neck, and draw the plough?
Or when did e'er the gracious freed
Withhold his labour or his fpeed ?
If you all nature's fyftem fcan,
The only idle thing is man.

A wanton Sparrow long'd to hear

Their fage difcourfe, and ftraight drew near.
The bird was talkative and loud,
And very pert and very proud;
As worthlefs and as vain a thing,
Perhaps, as ever wore a wing.
She found, as on a fpray the fat,
The little friends were deep in chat;
That virtue was their fav'rite theme,
And toil and probity their scheme :
Such talk was hateful to her breaft;
She thought them arrant prudes at best.
When, to difplay her naughty mind,
Hunger with cruelty combin'd,

She view'd the Ant with favage eyes,
And hopt and hopt to fnatch the prize.
The Bee, who watch'd her op'ning bill,
And guefs'd her fell defign to kill,
Afk'd her, from what her anger rose,
And why fhe treated Ants as foes?
The Sparrow her reply began;
And thus the converfation ran:

Whenever I'm difpos'd to dine, I think the whole creation mine; That I'm a bird of high degree, And ev'ry infect made for me. Hence oft I fearch the emmet-brood (For emmets are delicious food) And oft, in wantonness and play, I flay ten thousand in a day. For truth it is, without difguife, That I love mifchief as my eyes.

Oh fie! the honeft Bee reply'd, I fear you make bafe man your guide; Of ev'ry creature fure the worst, Tho' in creation's scale the first! Ungrateful man! 'tis ftrange he thrives, Who burns the Bees to rob their hives! I hate his vile administration, And fo do all the emmet nation. What fatal foes to birds are men, Quite to the Eagle from the Wren! O! do not mens example take, Who mischief do for mischief's fake; But spare the Ant-her worth demands Efteem and friendship at your hands. A mind with ev'ry virtue bleft, Muft raife compaffion in your breaft.

Virtue! rejoin'd the fneering bird,
Where did you learn that Gothic word?
Since I was hatch'd, I never heard
That virtue was at all rever'd.
But fay it was the ancients claim,
Yet moderns difavow the name;
Unless, my dear, you read romances,
I cannot reconcile your fancies.
Virtue in fairy tales is feen

To play the goddess or the queen;
But what's a queen without the pow'r 2
Or beauty, child, without a dow'r?
Yet this is all that virtue brags,
At beft 'tis only worth in rags.
Such whims my very heart derides:
Indeed you make me burst my fides.
Truft me, Mifs Bee-to speak the truth,
I've copy'd men from earliest youth;
The fame our taste, the same our school,
Paffion and appetite our rule;
And call me bird, or call me finner,
I'll ne'er forego my fport or dinner.

A prowling cat the mifcreant fpics,
And wide expands her amber eyes:
Near and more near Grimalkin daws;
She wags her tail, protends her paws;
Then, fpringing on her thoughtless prey,
She bore the vicious bird away.

Thus, in her cruelty and pride, The wicked wanton Sparrow dy'd.

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O'erjoy'd, they feiz'd with eager hafte
Luxurious on the rich repast.
Alarm'd at this, the little crew
About their ears vindictive flew.
The beafts, unable to fuftain
Th'unequal combat, quit the plain;
Half blind with rage, and mad with pain,
Their native shelter they regain;
There fit, and now, difcreeter grown,
Too late their rashness they bemoan;
And this by dear experience gain,
That pleafure's ever bought with pain.
So, when the gilded baits of vice
Are plac'd before our longing eyes,
With greedy hafte we fnatch our fill,
And fwallow down the latent ill;
But when experience opes our eyes,
Away the fancy'd pleafure flies:
It flies; but oh! too late we find
It leaves a real sting behind.

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§ 208. The Cameleon. MERRICK. OFT has it been my lot to mark

A proud conceited talking (park,
With eyes that hardly ferv'd at moft
To guard their mafter 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To fee whatever could be feen:
Returning from his finish'd tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travell'd fool your mouth will flop:
"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-
"I've seen and fure I ought to know.”.
So begs you'd pay a due fubmiffion,
And acquiefce in his decifion.

Two travellers of fuch a caft,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they past,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talk'd of this, and then of that,
Difcours'd a while, 'mongst other matter,
Of the Cameleon's form and nature.

A ftranger animal,' cries one,
⚫ Sure never liv'd beneath the fun :
A lizard's body, lean and long,
A fifh's head, a ferpent's tongue;
Its tooth with triple claw disjoin'd;
• And what a length of tail behind!
How flow its pace! and then its hue-
• Who ever faw fo fine a blue?'

"Hold there," the other quick replies, « 'Tis green,—I saw it with these eyes, "As late with open mouth it lay, "And warm'd it in the funny ray; "Stretch'd at its cafe the beast I 'view'd, "And faw it eat the air for food."

I've feen it, Sir, as well as you, And muft again affirm it blue.

• At leifure I the beast survey'd,

• Extended in the cooling fhade.'

'Tis green, 'tis green, Sir, I affure ye.”— Green!' cries the other in a fury

x the

Why, Sir, d'ye think I've loft my eyes "Twere no great lofs," the friend replies; "For, if they always ferve you thus, "You'll find 'em but of little ufe."

So high at laft the conteft rofe,
From words they almoft came to blows:
When luckily came by a third-
To him the queftion they referr'd;
And begg'd he'd tell them, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue?

Sirs,' cries the umpire, ceafe your pother, The creature's neither one nor t'other : I caught the animal last night, And view'd it o'er by candle-light: 'I mark'd it well-'twas black as jetYou ftare-but, Sirs, I've got it yet, And can produce it.' "Pray, Sir, do: "I'll lay my life, the thing is blue." And I'll be fworn, that when you've seen The reptile, you'll pronounce him green.' "Well then, at once, to cease the doubt," Replies the man," I'll turn him out: "And when before your eyes I've fet him, "If you don't find him black, I'll eat him." He faid; then full before their fight Produc'd the beaft, and lo-'twas white. Both ftar'd; the man look'd wond'rous wife'My children,' the Cameleon cries (Then firft the creature found a tongue) You all are right, and all are wrong: 'When next you talk of what you view, • Think others fee as well as you : Nor wonder, if you find that none Prefers your eye-fight to his own.'

§ 209. The Monkies. A Tale. MERRICK. eye, has rang'd

WHOE'ER, with curious

Thro' Ovid's tales, has feen

How Jove, incens'd, to Monkies chang'd
A tribe of worthless men.

Repentant foon, th'offending race
Întreat the injur'd pow'r

To give them back the human face,
And reafon's aid restore.

Jove, footh'd at length, his ear inclin'd,
And granted half their pray'r!

But t'other half he bade the wind
Difperfe in empty air,

Scarce had the Thund'rer giv'n the nod
That fhook the vaulted skies,
With haughtier air the creatures ftrode,
And ftretch'd their dwindled fize.
The hair in curls luxuriant, now

Around their temples spread;
The tail, that whilom hung below,
Now dangled from the head.
The head remains unchang'd within,
Nor alter'd much the face;

It fill retains its native grin,

And all its old grimace,

Thus,

Thus, half transform'd, and half the fame,
Jove bade them take their place
(Reftoring them their ancient claim)
Among the human race.

Man with contempt the brute furvey'd,
Nor would a name beftow;
But woman lik'd the motley breed,
And call'd the thing a Beau.

210. The Fire-Side. COTTON.
DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In Folly's maze advance;
Tho' fingularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll ftep afide,
Nor join the giddy dance.

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

Where love our hours employs;
No noily neighbour enters here;
No intermeddling ftranger near,

To fpoil our heartfelt joys.
If folid happinefs we prize,
Within our breaft this jewel lies.

;

And they are fools who roam:
The world has nothing to beftow;
From our own felves our joys muft flow,

And that dear hut, our home.
Of reft was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing the left
That fafe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excurfion o'er,
The difappointed bird once more
Explor'd the facred bark.

Tho' fools fpurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By fweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradife below.

Our babes fhall richest comforts bring;
If tutor❜d right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleafures ever rife:

We'll form their minds, with ftudious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,

And train them for the fkies.

While they our wifeft hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, fupport our age,
And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day;
And thus our fondeft loves repay,

And recompenfe our cares.
No borrow'd joys, they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:
Monarchs we envy not your fate;
We look with pity on the great,
And blefs 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 fuffice,
And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has fent,
Nor aim beyond our pow'r;
For, if our stock be very finall,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lofe the prefent hour.

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

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

Whole fragrance fmells to heav'n. We'll afk no long protracted treat, Since winter life is feldom fweet; But, when our feaft is o'er, Grateful from table we'll arife, Nor grudge our fons with envious eyes The relics of our store.

Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go; Its chequer'd paths of joy and woe

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

And mingle with the dead. While Confcience, like a faithful friend, Shall thro' 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.

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AUTHORS, you know, of greateft fame,
Thro' modefty, fupprefs their name
And would you with me to reveal
What thefe fuperior wits conceal,
Forego the fearch, my curious friend,
And husband time to better end.
All my ambition is, I own,
To profit and to please unknown;
Like ftreams fupply'd from fprings below,
Which featter blettings as they flow.

Were you difeas'd, or prefs'd with pain,
Straight you'd apply to Warwick Lane:
The thoughtful Doctor feels your pulfe
(No matter whether Mead or Hulfe)
Writes-Arabic to you and me-
Then figns his hand, and takes his fee.

Though Dr. COTTON is well known to have been the author of thefe Vifions, they have hitherto been publifhed without prefixing his name.

Νόιν,

Now, fhould the fage omit his name,
Would not the eure remain the fame ?
Not but phyficians fign their bill,
Or when they cure, or when they kill,
'Tis often known, the mental race
Their fond ambitious fires difgrace.
Dar'd I avow a parent's claim,
Critics might fneer, and friends might blame.
This dang'rous fecret let me hide,
I'll tell you ev'ry thing befide:
Not that it boots the world a tittle,
Whether the author's big or little;
Or whether fair, or black, or brown;
No writer's hue concerns the town.

I pafs the filent rural hour,

No flave to wealth, no tool to pow'r :
My manfion's warm, and very neat;
You'd fay, A pretty fnug retreat!'
My rooms no coftly paintings grace;
The humbler print fupplies their place.
Behind the houfe my garden lies,
And opens to the fouthern fkies:
The diftant hills gay profpects yield,
And plenty fmiles in ev'ry field.

The faithful mastiff is my guard;
The feather'd tribes adorn my yard;
Alive my joy, my treat when dead,
And their foft plumes improve my bed.
My cow rewards me all the can
(Brutes leave ingratitude to man);
She daily, thankful to her lord,
Crowns with nectareous fweets my board:
Am I difeas'd-the cure is known;
Her fweeter juices mend my own.

I love my house, and seldom roam;
Few vifits please me more than home:
I pity that unhappy elf
Who loves all company but felf;
By idle paffions borne away
To opera, masquerade, or play;
Fond of thofe hives where folly reigns,
And Britain's peers receive her chains;
Where the pert virgin flights a name,
And fcorns to redden into flame.
But know, my fair, to whom belong
The poet and his artless fong,
/ When female cheeks refufe to glow,
Farewell to virtue here below!
Our fex is loft to ev'ry rule;
Our fole diftinction, knave or fool.
'Tis to your innocence we run;
Save us, ye fair, or we're undone :
Maintain your modefty and station,
So women fhall preferve the nation.

Mothers, 'tis faid, in days of old,
Efteem'd their girls more choice than gold;
Too well a daughter's worth they knew,
To make her cheap by public view:
(Few, who their diamonds value weigh,
Expofe thofe diamonds ev'ry day.)
Then, if Sir Piume drew near, and fmil'd,
The parent trembl'd for her child:
The firft advance alarm'd her breaft;
And fancy pictur'd all the reft:

But now no mother fears a foe; No daughter fhudders at a beau;

Pleafure is all the reigning theme;
Our noon-day thought, our midnight dream.
In folly's chace our youths engage,
And fhameless crowds of tott'ring age,
The dic, the dance, th'intemp'rate bowl,
With various charms ingrofs the foul.
Are gold, fame, health, the terms of vice
The frantic tribes fhall pay the price.
But tho' to ruin poft they run,
They'll think it hard to be undone.

Do not arraign my want of tafte
Or fight, to ken where joys are plac'd.
They widely.err who think me blind;
And I difclaim a ftoic's mind.

Like yours are my fenfations quite;
I only strive to feel aright.

My joys, like ftreams, glide gently by;
Tho' fmall their channel, never dry;
Keep a ftill, even, fruitful wave,
And blefs the neighb'ring meads they lave.
My fortune (for I'll mention all,
And more than you dare tell) is finall
Yet ev'ry friend partakes my ftore,,
And want goes finiling from my door.
Will forty fhillings warm the breaft
Of worth or industry diftreft ?
This fum I cheerfully impart,
'Tis fourfcore pleafures to my heart!
And you may make, by means like thefe,
Five talents ten, whenc'er you please.
'Tis true, my little purfe grows light;
But then I fleep fo fweet at night!
This grand fpecific will prevail
When all the doctor's opiates fail.
You ask what party I purfue?
Perhaps you mean, Whofe fool are you
The names of party I deteft;
Badges of flavery at beft:

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I've too much grace to play the knave, And too much pride to turn a flave.

*

I love my country from my foul,
And grieve when knaves or fools controul:
I'm pleas'd when vice and folly smart,
Or at the gibbet or the cart:
Yet always pity where I can;
Abhor the guilt, but mourn the man.

Now the religion of your poct-
Does not this little preface fhow it?
My Visions if you scan with care,
'Tis ten to one you'll find it there.
And if my actions fuit my fong,

You can't in confcience think me wrong.

§ 212. Vifion I. Slander. Infcribed to Mifs My lovely girl, I write for you,

And pray believe my Visions true; They'll form your mind to cv'ry grace; They'll add new beauties to your face; And when old age impairs your prime, You'll triumph o'er the fpoils of time. Childhood and youth engage my pen; Tis labour loft to talk to men.:

Youth

Youth may, perhaps, reform when wrong :
Age will not liften to my fong.
He who at fifty is a fool,

Is far too stubborn grown for fchool.
What is that vice which ftill prevails,
When almost ev'ry paffion fails;
Which with our very dawn begun,
Nor ends but with our fetting fun;
Which, like a noxious weed, can spoil
The faireft flow'rs, and choak the foil?
'Tis Slander-and, with fhaine I own,
The vice of human-kind alone.

Be Slander, then, my leading dream,
Tho' you're a stranger to the theme;
Thy fofter breaft and honest heart,
Scorn the defamatory art;
Thy foul afferts her native fkies,
Nor afks Detraction's wings to rife;
In foreign fpoils let others thine,
Intrinsic excellence is thine.

The bird in peacock's plumes who fhone
Could plead no merit of her own :
The filly theft betray'd her pride;
And fpoke her poverty befide.

Th'infidious flandering thief is worfe
Than the poor rogue who steals your purfe.
Say, he purloins your glitt'ring ftore:
Who takes your gold, takes trash-no more;
Perhaps he pilfers-to be fed-

Ah! guiltless wretch, who steals for bread!
But the dark villain, who fhall aim
To blaft, my fair, thy fpotlefs name,
He'd fteal a precious gem away,
Steal what both Indies can't repay!
Here the ftrong pleas of want are vain,
Or the more impious pleas of gain.
No finking family to fave!

No gold to glut th'infatiate knave!

Improve the hint of Shakespeare's tongue;
'Twas thus immortal Shakespeare fung :
And trust the bard's unerring rule;
For nature was that Poet's school.

As I was nodding in my chair,
I faw a rueful wild appear:
No verdure met my aching fight,
But hemlock and cold aconite;
Two very pois'nous plants, 'tis true,
But not fo bad as vice to you.

The dreary profpect spread around!
Deep fnow had whiten'd all the ground,
A black and barren mountain nigh,
Expos'd to ev'ry friendlefs fky!
Here foul-mouth'd Slander lay reclin'd;
Her fnaky treffes hifs'd behind;

A bloated toad-ftool rais'd her head;
The plumes of ravens were her bed f;'
She fed upon the viper's brood,

And flak'd hier impious thirst with blood.

* Othello.

The rifing fun and western ray
Were witness to her diftant fway.
The tyrant claim'd a mightier hoft
Than the proud Perfian e'er could boast.
No conqueft grac'd Darius' font,
By his own numbers half undone :
Succefs attended Slander's pow'r;
She reap'd fresh laurels ev'ry hour.
Her troops a deeper fcarlet wore
Than ever armies knew before.

No plea diverts the fury's rage,
The fury fpares nor fex nor age.
E'en Merit, with destructive charms,
Provokes the vengeance of her arms.

Whene'er the tyrant founds to war, Her canker'd trump is heard afar. Pride, with a heart unknown to yield, Commands in chief, and guides the field; He talks with vaft gigantic ftride, And fcatters fear and ruin wide: So the impetuous torrent sweep At once whole nations to the deep. Revenge, that bafe Hefperian |, known A chief fupport of Slander's throne, Amidft the bloody crowd is feen, And treach'ry brooding in his mien; The monfter often chang'd his gait, But march'd refolv'd, and fix'd as fate: Thus the fell kite, whom hunger ftings, Now flowly moves his out-ftretch'd wings; Now fwift as lightning bears away, And darts upon his trembling prey.

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Envy commands a facred band,
With fword and poifon in her hand.
Around her haggard eye-balls roll
A thoufand fiends poffefs her foul.
The artful unfufpected sprite,
With fatal aim attacks by night.
Her troops advance with filent tread,
And ftab the hero in his bed;
Or fhoot the wing'd malignant lye,
And female honours pine and die.
So prowling wolves, when darkness reigns,
Intent on murder, fcour the plains;
Approach the folds where lambs repofe,
Whofe guilclefs breasts suspect no foes;
The favage gluts his fierce defires,
And bleating innocence expires.

Slander fimil'd horribly, to view
How wide her conquefts daily grew :
Around the crowded levees wait,
Like oriental flaves of state;
Of either sex whole armies preft,
But chiefly of the fair and best.

Is it a breach of friendship's law,
To fay what female friends I faw?
Slander affume's the idol's part,
And claims the tribute of the heart;

+ Garth's Difpenfatory.

Xerxes, King of Perfia, and fon of Darius. He invaded Greece with an army confifting of more than a million of men (fome fay more than two millions); who, together with their cattle, perished in a great measure through the inability of the countries to fupply fuch a vaft hoft with provifion.

Hefperia includes Italy as well as Spain; and the inhabitants of both are remarkable for their reveng ful difpoficions.

The

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