The rose and violet round her blooming,
With fragrant fcents the air perfuming?
No, no: I saw no pearls or roses,
Or fuch fine things as you fuppofes:
I found your sweetheart winnowing wheat,
All cover'd o'er with duft and sweat;
And, when I told her you were dying
For love of her, instead of crying,
The faucy flut began to titter:
But when I gave her your kind letter,
She laid it down upon the fack,
And faid, I'd better take it back:
"For faith and troth!" the poor wench faid,
"I never learn'd to write or read;
"But if he longs to kifs my toe fo,
"Let 'en come and do it at Tobofo."
So, please your worship, my good mafter, For fear of fome more dire difafter;
Let us no longer through those highlands,
In queft of governments or islands,
Or killing giants, idly roam,
But mount our fteeds-and travel home.
IN THE MANNER OF CHAUCER.
A Wight there was, fcarce known I ween to fame,
Who day by day to Bathe's fam'd city came :
Meagre, and very rueful were his looks,
He feem'd as he had fed on naught but books.
His old great coat, "which he could ne'er forfake,
"Hung half before and half behind his back.”
Full threescore fprings had bloffom'd o'er his head,
Yet nimble as a roebuck was his tread:
For, in his youth he ne'er did heat his blood
With liquors hot, or high and luscious food..
Therefore his age like frofty winter past,
Hoary, but hale; and healthy to the last.
"What! walk to Bath, fir?" cries fome gouty man,
"No, fir, quoth he, I did not walk—I ran.”
He ftroll'd about, and travers'd many a street:
Eftfoons fome friend or dainty nymph wou'd greet::
With scornful looks, by empty fops furvey'd
By scornful looks or fneers, he undismay'd
On matters deep or mus'd or feem'd to mufe,
Then made an halt, then read or heard the news;
Bought fome old book or print perchance, and then,
Small business done, he travell❜d home again.
Such is the life of man, with busy face,
On trifles bent, he ftrolls from place to place;.
With various scenes of happiness amus'd,
By turns applauded-and by turns abus'd.
To forrow's school fent weeping from the womb,
Spends his short span-then haftens to the tomb:
Life's but a morning's lounge, unless confin'd
To duty's path, and useful to mankind.
ALAS! with what unwearied fpeed
Revolves the circling year! Seasons to feafons ftill fucceed-Appear and difappear.
The Spring, on balmy zephyrs borne,
With roses blooming round;
The Summer deck'd with ears of corn,,
With fruits the Autumn crown'd;
Again are fled-and o'er the dawn
Now murky fogs arife:
The fun but faintly gilds the lawn,
Then haftens down the fkies.
The groves their leafy honours fhed,,
No more their warblers fing:
Each infect feeks his wintry bed,
To wait returning spring.
The plaintive Swallow now prepares
To feek fome milder fhore;
A gloomy face all nature wears,
And pleasure is no more.
Thus fly the cheerful days of man,
Dull cares his thoughts engage:
Each hour contracts his little span,
And hurries on Old Age.
Wrinkles his brow, grey hairs his head,
Sharp pains his limbs invade:
His fpirits flag, his mirth is fled,
And all his profpects fade.
From crowds, on airy projects bent,
Let me in time retire;
And, with domestick scenes content,
Enjoy my winter's fire.
No more from flower to flower I'll range,
But wait in calm repofe;
A torpid infect, till my change
Some happier ftate disclose.
While thus the seasons reftlefs roll,
And naught is conftant here,
To endless blifs Hope wafts the foul
Beyond the ftarry sphere.
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