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For what are Men who grasp at Praise fublime,
But Bubbles on the rapid Stream of Time,
That rise and fall, that swell, and are no more,
Born and forgot, ten thousand in an Hour !


Virtue constitutes true Happiness. Pope.
O whom can Riches give Repute ordruft,

Content, or Pleasure, but the Good and
Judges and Senates have been bought for Gold,
Efteem and Love were never to be sold.
Oh Fool! to think God hates the worthy Mind,
The Lover and the Love of Human-kind.

Honour and Shame from no Condition rise ; Act well your Part, there all the Honour lies; Fortune in Men has some small Diff'rence made, One flaunts in Rags, one flutters in Brocade ; Worth makes the Man, the Want of it the Fellow; The rest is all but Leather or Prunella. What's Fame? a fancy'd Life in others Breath ; A Thing beyond us, ev'n before our Death, A Wités a Feather, and a Chief's a Rod; An Honest Man's the noblest Work of God.


On Gaming

YOUNG. "HE Love of Gaming is the worst of Ills, With ceaseless Storms the blackend Soul it

fills, Inveighs at Heaven, neglects the Ties of Blood, Destroys the Power, and Will of doing Good, Kills Health, pawns Honour, plunges in Disgrace, * And turns an Angel's to a Fury's Face.

* The last Line is alter'd by the Editor, to make it com. port with his Design.

Or Criminal Pleasures.


are few, Pleasure, like Quick-Silver, is bright and coy ; We strive to grasp it with our utmoft Skill, Still it eludes us, and it glitters still: If seiz'd at last, compute your mighty Gains, What is it but rank Poison in your Veins ? ?

The Florist Moraliz'd.



E smile at Florists, we despise their Joy,

And think their Hearts enamour'd of a Toy; But are those wiser whom we most admire, Survey with Envy, and pursue with Fire? What's he, who fighs for Wealth, or Fame, or Power?Another Florio, doating on a Flower, A short-liv'd Flower, and which has often sprung. From fordid Arts, as Florio's out of Dung.

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Sacred Solitude ! divine Retreat!

Choice of the Prudent ! Envy of the Great! By thy pure Stream, or in thy waving Shade, We court fair Wisdom, that celestial Maid: The genuine Offspring of her lov'd Embrace, (Strangers on Earth) are Innocence and Peace, There from the Ways of Men lay'd safe ashore, We smile to hear the distant Tempest roar; There bleft with Health, with Business unperplext, This Life we relish, and ensure the next.

The Real Beauty distinguished.

YOUNG ET Angel Forms angelic Truths maintain ;

Nature disjoins the Beauteous and Prophane. For what's true Beauty, but fair Virtue's Face ? Virtue made visible in outward Grace? She then that's haunted with an impious Mind, The more the charms, the more the shocks Mankind.



On the Same. A Song by Mr. EARL.

. TELLA and Flavia ev'ry Hour

Do various Hearts surprise ;
In Stella's Soul lies all her Power,

And Flavia's in her Eyes.
More boundless Flavia's Conquests are,

And Stella's more confin'd;
All can discern a Face that's fair,

But few a lovely Mind.
Stella, like Britain's Monarchs, reigns

O'er cultivated Lands;
Like Eastern Tyrants, Flavia deigns

To rule o'er barren Sands.
Then boast not, Flavia, thy fair Face,

Thy Beauty's only Store;
Thy Charms will ev'ry Day decrease,

Each Day gives Stella more.

The Fair Lady's Wish.

F it be true, Celestial Pow'rs,

have form'd me fair, And yet in all my vainest Hours

My Mind has been my Care,

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Then, in Return, I beg this Grace,

As you were ever kind; What envious Time takes from


Face, Bestow upon my Mind.

On a Bee fifted in Honey.


ROM Flower to Flower, with eager Pains,

See the brik, busy Lab'rer fly; When all that from her Toil she gains,

Is in her hoarded Sweets to die. 'Tis thus (would Man the Truth believe)

With Life's soft Sweets, each fav'rite Joy; If we taste wisely, they relieve ;

But, if we plunge too deep, destroy.



THEN I revolve this evanescent State,

How fleeting is its Form, how short its Date! My Being and my Stay dependant ftill; Not on mine own, but on another's Will; I ask myself, as I my Image view, Which is the real Shadow of the two.

The Unreasonableness of denying a future State. GLYNN's Prize Poem on the Day of Judgment. CEPTIC! whoe'er thou art, who fay'st the Soul,

That Particle divine, which God's own Breath Inspir'd into the mortal Mass, shall Rest Annihilate, 'till Duration has unroll'd Her never-ending Line ; tell if thou know'st,


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Why ev'ry Nation, ev'ry Clime, tho' all
In Laws, in Rites, in Manners disagree,
With one Consent expect another World,
Where Wickedness shall weep: Why Paznim Bards
Fabled Elysian Plains ; Tartarean Lakes,
Styx and Cocytus? tell, why Hali's Sons
Have feign'd a Paradise of Mirth and Love,
Banquets, and blooming Nymphs ? or rather tell,
Why on the Brink of Orellana's Stream,
Where never Science rear'd her facred Torch,
Th' untutor’d Indian dreams of happier Worlds
Behind the cloud-topt Hill? Why in each Breast
Is plac'd a friendly Monitor, that prompts,
Informs, directs, encourages, forbids ?
Tell, why on unknown Evil Grief attends ;
Or Joy on fecret Good? Why Conscience acts
With tenfold Force, when Sickness, Age, or Pain,
Stands tott'ring on the Precipice of Death?
Or why such Horror gnaws the guilty Soul
Of dying Sinners; while the good Man sleeps
Peaceful and calm, and with a Smile expires ?



The grand Distinction betwixt the Virtuous and the
Wicked reserved for another State.
OOK round the World! with what a partial

The Scale of Bliss and Misery is sustain'd!
Beneath the Shade of cold Obscurity
Pale Virtue lies; no Arm supports her Head,
No friendly Voice speaks Comfort to her Soul,
Nor soft-ey'd Pity drops a melting Tear;
But, in their Stead, Contempt and rude Disdain


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