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The worst in genius, meafure and degree;
For envy, hatred, malice, are but parts of thee.
Or woud'st thou change the scene, and quit thy den,
Where spleen, by vapours denfe begot and bred,
Have rais'd their darkfome walls, and plac'd their thorny bed;
There may'st thou all thy bitterness unload, There may'st thou croak, in concert with the toad,
With thee the hollow howling winds fhall join, Nor fhall the bittern her base throat deny,
The querulous frogs fhall mix their dirge with thine, Th' ear-piercing hern, and plover screaming high, While million humming gnats fit œstrum shall supply.
An herd of all thy minions are at hand,
And ever looks around her as fhe walks,
Foe to the virgins, and the poet's fame,
A wither'd, time-deflow'red old maid, That ne'er enjoy'd love's ever facred flame.
Hypocrify fucceeds with faint-like look,
As in fhort Gallic trips fhe minces by,
And fqueamishly fhe knits her scornful brow.
They wait thy call, and mourn thy long delay,
An HYMN for the HAY-MAKERS.
O DE I.
Quinetiam Gallum noctem explaudentibus alfs
RISK chaunticleer his mattins had begun, And broke the filence of the night, And thrice he call'd aloud the tardy fun,
And thrice he hail'd the dawn's ambiguous light; Back to their graves the fear-begotten phantoms run.
Strong Labour got up with his pipe in his mouth,
He lent new perfumes to breath of the south,
Behind him came Health from her cottage of thatch,
First of the village Colin was awake,
C Now the rural graces three
Her morning hymn to heav'n..
All nature wakes---the birds unlock their throats,
All alive o'er the lawn,
Full glad of the dawn,
The little lambkins play,
Sylvia and Sol arife,---and all is day--
Come, my mates, let us work,
While the Sun fhines, our Hay-cocks to make,
So fine is the Day,
And fo fragrant the Hay,
That the Meadow's as blithe as the Wake.