Doubtlefs you're right, in your fuperior Way,
But I mail ne'er feel Heat from all you'll fay.
For little Self ilill at my Bofom knocks,
Juft as it ftirs a £—¿—or a F—.
For Patriotifm prune Fancy's tow'ring Wings,
Defpife King's Meffengers, look down on Kings;
I'll be content to live a home-fpun Fool,
Obedient kifs the Rod of fov'reign Rule;
Nor, to my Grief, on Emptinefs refine,
While I have folid Gold, Roaft-beef, and Wine.

B. Why am I preaching to a Lump of Earth?
Why, Thou haft been mere Matter from thy Birth.
'Tis rare to find, in thefe corrupted Days,
One Throb for Virtue, or for Virtue's Praife.
But, ftupid Mortal, be not too fecure;
Nor think we're always wretched when we're poor.
Confcience from Right, e'en when a Booby fwervesj
With Eye fagacious all his Crimes obfèrves:
And tho' he rocks her, for a Time, aileep,
While gilded Knaves for him their Feftals keep;

Yethis good injur'd Angel tiirn'd a Fiend,

Is not fo loon from her Commiiîion wean'd;

With tenfold Fury from her Torpor wakes,

Darts in his Face her Sulphur, and her Snakes,

Diftinguiihing for ever to her Prey,

The Night with Horror, and with Shame the Day.

Be mine then, all Thou thinkeft but a Dream;
Thine be the Haunch's titillating Steam.
To think beneath myfelf I do not fall,
Will footh the Voice of Hunger's piercing Call.
Tremble Thou ever while the Great pafs by,
And let me view them with a fteady Eye.

Come, Virtues fair Companion, confcious Thought!
By the World's Empire not too dearly bought;
The Pride of Youth, and the Support of Years,
That even canil mingle Ecftaiy with Tears;
Oh I deign to take thy Manilon in my Breafr,
And as I'm virtuous, ever make me bleft?

Make me ftill bold, to Manhood up, from Youth,
And ev'ry Friend of Liberty and Truth.

D

And when returning Seafons bring my Age • ■ (The Care for ever of the Good and Sage) Bufy'd no more in the World's empty Strife, When all deferts me, e'en my very Life; Then, confcious Thought', refufe me not thy Aid, But with thy Gleams refreih my lonely Shade.

But what for Thee, thou mifcreant vile Remains, When ebbing Nature creeps along thy Veins? I mall poiîèfs the pure ethereal Toy, Which Nought on Earth can heighten or annoy: A floating painted Bubble but thy Share, That Bubble broken by a Breath of Air; Thy Heart with Joy elate, with Sorrow drown'd, As a rich Puppy juft hath fmil'd or frown'd. Perhaps the nobleft Triumph of thy Soul Will be the Chance of a Sans prendre Vlie: To flee thyfelf thou wilt be forc'd to crawl, And ftrive to hop with Burnett at a Ball j Conílftent but in one infernal Plan, To war with Nature, with thyfelf, and Man;

Splutter, the verieft wrangling Thing alive,
Swear Black is White, and T¿vo and Three not Five
Vexing, breathe out thy lateft Breath, and vext,
Loath'd by this World, and trembling for the next.

But diiFrent Entertainment will await
The confiant Tenour of my mortal State;
Pleafures, which only tomyfelfl'll owe,
Pleafures, which Thou and В—e ihall never know:
To the World1 s Glitter be thy Views reiign'd;
Give me the milder Luftre of the Mind.

Bbrwick, Dec. t?,
1764.

FIN IS.