Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragant Indian weed.
Pleasure for a nofe divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy of men.
THE MISER AND MOUSE.
AS Pedro stalk'd around his house,
The jealous miser spy'd a mouse.
How now! cries he, what doft thou here?
Sir, fays the mouse, dimifs your fear :
I came not with the hopes of food,
But for the fake of-folitude.
THE STAGE OF LIFE.
OUR life's a journey in a winter's day;'
Some only break their fast, and so away;
Others stay dinner, and depart full fed;
The deepest age but fups and goes to bed.
He's most in debt that lingers out the day;
Who dies betimes, has less and less to pay.
THE BEE STIFLED IN HONEY.
FROM flow'r to flow'r, with eager pains,
See the blefs'd busy lab'rer fly;
When all that from the toil fhe gains
Is in the fweets fhe hoards to die.
'Tis thus, would man the truth believe,
With life's foft sweets, each fav'rite joy,
If we taste wifely, they relieve;
But, if we plunge too deep, destroy.
HAIL, ever-pleasing Solitude!
Companion of the wife and good!
But, from whofe holy, piercing eye,
The herd of fools and villains fly.
Oh, how I love with thee to walk!
And liften to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the most obdurate hearts.
Thine is th' unbounded breath of moṛn,
Juft as the dew-bent rofe is born;
And while meridian fervors beat,
Thine is the woodland's dumb retreat;
But chief, when evening fcenes decay,
And the faint landscape swims away,
Oh! let me pierce thy fecret cell,
And in thy deep receffes dwell:
For ever with thy raptures fir'd,
For ever from the world retir'd;
Nor by a mortal seen, fave he
A Lycidas or Licon be.
HAIL Liberty! whofe prefence glads th'abode
Of Heav'n itself, great attribute of God!
By thee sustain❜d, th' unbounded spirit runs,
Moulds orbs on orbs, and lights up funs on
By thee fuftain'd in love unwearied lives, And uncontroul'd creates, fupports, forgives: No pow'r, or time, or space, his will with ftood:
Almighty endless! infinite in good!
THE country lately, 'twas my wifh: oh there!
Gardens, diverfions, friends, relations, air.
For London now, dear London, how I burn
I must be happy, fure, when I return.
Whoever hopes true happiness to fee,
Hopes for what never was, nor e'er will be.
The nearest ease, fince we muft fuffer still,
Are they, who dare be patient under ill.
FEW people know it, yet, dear Sir, 'tis true,
Man fhould have fomewhat evermore to do.
Hard labour's tedious, every one must own;
But furely better fuch by far, than none:
The perfect drone, the quite impertinent,
Whofe life at nothing aims, but to be spent ;
Such Heaven visits for some mighty ill :
'Tis fure the hardest labour to fit still.
Hence that unhappy tribe, who nought pursue,
Who fin, for want of something else to do..
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