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Tracklefs, as the wing'd couriers of the air,
They post to heav'n, and there record thy folly.
Because, tho' ftation'd on th' important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless centinel,
Didft let them pafs unnotic'd, unimprov'd.
And know, for that thou flumber'dft on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar

For ev'ry fugitive: and when thou thus
Shalt ftand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd Justice, who shall tell thy audit !
Then stay the prefent inftant, dear Horatio;
Imprint the marks of wifdom on its wings.

"Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fortune.

Oh! let it not elude thy grasp, but like

The good old patriarch upon record,

Hold the fleet angel faft, until he bless thee.

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T puzzles much the fages' brains,
Where Eden stood of yore;

Some place it in Arabia's plains,

Some fay, it is no more.

But

But Cobham can these tales confute,
As all the curious know;

For he has prov'd beyond difpute,
That paradife is Srow.

To a Child of Five Years old.

By the Same.

AIREST flow'r, all flow'rs excelling,
Which in Eden's garden grew;
Flow'rs of Eve's imbower'd dwelling, a

Are, my Fair-one, types of you..
Mark, my Polly, how the rofes
Emulate thy damask cheek,

How the bud its fweets difclofes,
Buds thy opening bloom befpeak.

Lillies are, by plain direction,

Emblems of a double kind;
Emblems of thy fair complexion,
Emblems of thy fairer mind.
But, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty
Bloffom, fade, and die away;

Then purfue good fenfe and duty,
Evergreens, that ne'er decay.

Alluding to Milton's defcription of Eve's borver.

VOL. IV.

R

Father

Father FRANCIS's Prayer:

Written in Lord WESTMORLAND's Hermitage.

NE

gay

attire, ne marble hall,

Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall
Ne cook of Fraunce, ne dainty board,
Beftow'd with pypes of perigord;
Ne power, ne fuch like idle fancies ;
Sweet Agnes grant to father Francis;
Let me ne more myself deceive;
Ne more regret the toys I leave;
The world I quit, the proud, the vain,
Corruption's and Ambition's train;

But not the good, perdie nor fair,
'Gainst them I make ne vow, ne pray'r
But fuch aye welcome to my cell,
And oft, not always, with me dwell;
Then caft, sweet Saint, a circle round,
And blefs from fools this holy ground;
From all the foes to worth and truth,
From wanton old, and homely youth;

The

The gravely dull and pertly gay,
Oh banish thefe; and by my fay,
Right well I ween that in this age,
Mine house shall prove an hermitage.

An Infcription on the Cell.

Beneath these mofs-grown roots, this ruftick cell,
Truth, Liberty, Content, fequefter'd dwell;
Say you, who dare our hermitage disdain,
What drawing-room can boaft so fair a train ?

An Infcription in the Cell,

Sweet bird that fing'ft on yonder fpray,
Purfue unharm'd thy fylvan lay;
While I beneath this breezy fhade,
In peace repofe my careless head;
And joining thy enraptur'd fong,
Inftruct the world-enamour'd throng,'
That the contented harmless breast
In folitude itself is blest.

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To the Right Hon. HENRY PELHAM, Efq;

TH

HE humble Petition of the worshipful company of Poets and News-writers,

SHEWETH,

THAT your honour's petitioners (dealers in rhymes, And writers of scandal, for mending the times) By loffes in bus'nefs, and England's well-doing, Are funk in their credit, and verging on ruin.

That these, their misfortunes, they humbly conceive, Arife not from dulnefs, as fome folks believe,

But from rubs in their way, that your honour has laid,
And want of materials to carry on trade.

That they always had form'd high conceits of their use,
And meant their last breath fhou'd go out in abuse;
But now (and they fpeak it with forrow and tears)
Since your honour has fate at the helm of affairs,
No party will join 'em, no faction invite

To heed what they fay, or to read what they write;
Sedition, and Tumult, and Difcord are fled,
And Slander fcarce ventures to lift up her head-
In short, publick bus'nefs is fo carry'd on,
That their country is fay'd, and the patriots undone.

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