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To reach the summit, mounts with weary pains,
Winds round and round, and every turn essays,
Where sudden breaks resist the shorter ways.
Yet labour so, that ere faint age arrive,
Thy searching soul possess her rest alive:
To work by twilight were to work too late,
And age is twilight to the night of fate.
To will alone, is but to mean delay,
To work at present is the use of day.

For man's employ much thought and deed remain,
High thoughts the soul, hard deeds the body strain,
And mysteries ask believing, which to view,
Like the fair Sun, are plain, but dazzling too.

Be Truth, so found, with sacred heed possest,
Not kings have power to tear it from thy breast.
By no blank charters harm they where they hate,
Nor are they vicars, but the hands of fate.

Ah! fool and wretch, who lett'st thy soul be tied
To human laws! or must it so be tried?

Or will it boot thee, at the latest day,
When Judgment sits, and Justice asks thy plea,
That Philip that, or Gregory taught thee this,
Or John or Martin? All may teach amiss:
For every contrary in each extreme

This holds alike, and each may plead the same.

Wouldst thou to power a proper duty show? 'Tis thy first task the bounds of power to know; The bounds once pass'd, it holds the same no more,

Its nature alters, which it own'd before,
Nor were submission humbleness exprest,
But all a low idolatry at best.

Power from above, subordinately spread,
Streams like a fountain from th' eternal head;
There, calm and pure, the living waters flow,
But roars a torrent or a flood below;
Each flower ordain'd the margins to adorn,
Each native beauty, from its roots is torn,
And left on deserts, rocks and sands, are tost,
All the long travel, and in ocean lost.
So fares the soul, which more that power reveres,

Man claims from God, than what in God inheres.


FROM that dire era, bane to Sarum's pride, Which broke his schemes, and laid his friends


He talks and writes that popery will return,
And we, and he, and all his works will burn.
What touch'd himself was almost fairly prov'd :
Oh, far from Britain be the rest remov'd !
For, as of late he meant to bless the age,
With flagrant prefaces of party-rage,

O'er-wrought with passion, and the subject's weight,

Lolling, he nodded in his elbow seat;

Down fell the candle; grease and zeal conspire, Heat meets with heat, and pamphlets burn their


Here crawls a preface on its half-burn'd maggots, And there an introduction brings its faggots: Then roars the prophet of the northern nation, Scorch'd by a flaming speech on moderation.

Unwarn'd by this, go on, the realm to fright,
Thou Briton vaunting in thy second-sight!
In such a ministry you safely tell,
How much you'd suffer, if religion fell.



FROM town fair Arabella flies ;

The beaux unpowder'd grieve:

The rivers play before her eyes;
The breezes, softly breathing, rise;
The Spring begins to live.

Her lovers.swore, they must expire,
Yet quickly find their ease;
For, as she goes, their flames retire;
Love thrives before a nearer fire,
Esteem by distant rays.

Yet soon the fair one will return,
When Summer quits the plain :
Ye rivers, pour the weeping urn;
Ye breezes, sadly sighing, mourn;
Ye lovers, burn again!

'Tis constancy enough in love

That nature's fairly shown:

To search for more,

will fruitless prove;

Romances, and the turtle-dove,

The virtue boast alone.


OFT have I seen a piece of art,

Of light and shade the mixture fine, Speak all the passions of the heart, And show true life in every line.

But what is this before my eyes,
With every feature, every grace,
That strikes with love, and with surprise,
And gives me all the vital face?

It is not Chloris: for, behold,

The shifting phantom comes and goes; And when 'tis here, 'tis pale and cold, Nor any female softness knows.

But 'tis her image, for I feel

The very pains that Chloris gives;
Her charms are there, I know them well,
I see what in my bosom lives.

Oh, could I but the picture save!

'Tis drawn by her own matchless skill;

Nature the lively colours gave,

And she need only look to kill.

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