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Her golden tube, through which a sensual world
Draws grofs impurity, and likes it well,

The neat conveyance hiding all th' offence.
Not that he peevishly rejects a mode
Because that world adopts it. If it bear
The ftamp and clear impreffion of good fenfe,
And be not coftly more than of true worth,
He puts it on, and, for decorum sake,
Can wear it e'en as gracefully as fhe.

She judges of refinement by the eye,
He by the teft of confcience, and a heart
Not foon deceiv'd; aware that what is base
No polish can make sterling; and that vice,
Though well perfum'd and elegantly drefs'd,
Like an unburied carcafe trick'd with flow'rs,
Is but a garnish'd nuifance, fitter far
For cleanly riddance than for fair attire.
So life glides fmoothly and by ftealth away,
More golden than that age of fabled gold
Renown'd in ancient fong; not vex'd with care
Or ftain'd with guilt, beneficent, approv'd

Of God and man, and peaceful in its end.
So glide my life away! and fo at laft,
My share of duties decently fulfill'd,
May fome difeafe, not tardy to perform
Itdeftin'd office, yet with gentle firoke,

I

Difmifs me, weary, to a fafe retreat

Beneath the turf that I have often trod,

It shall not grieve me then, that once, when call'd
To drefs a Sofa with the flow'rs of verse,

I play'd awhile, obedient to the fair,

With that light tafk; but foon, to please her more,
Whom flow'rs alone I knew would little please,
Let fall th' unfinish'd wreath, and rov'd for fruit;
Rov'd far, and gather'd much fome harsh, 'tis true,
Pick'd from the thorns and briers of reproof,
But wholefome, well-digefted; grateful fome
To palates that can taste immortal truth;
Infipid elfe, and sure to be despis'd.
But all is in his hand whose praise I seek.
In vain the poet fings, and the world hears,
If he regard not, though divine the theme.
'Tis not in artful measures, in the chime
And idle tinkling of a minstrel's lyre,

To charm his ear, whose eye is on the heart;
Whose frown can disappoint the proudest strain,
Whofe approbation-prosper even mine.

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AN

EPISTLE

TO

JOSEPH HILL, Esa.

DEAR JOSEPH-five and twenty years ago→→
Alas, how time escapes !-'tis even so-
With frequent intercourse, and always sweet,
And always friendly, we were wont to cheat
A tedious hour-and now we never meet!
As fome grave gentleman in Terence fays,
('Twas therefore much the fame in ancient days)
Good lack, we know not what to-morrow brings-
Strange fluctuation of all human things!
True. Changes will befall, and friends may part,
But diftance only cannot change the heart:

And, were I call'd to prove th' affertion true,
One proof fhould ferve-a reference to you.

Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life, Though nothing have occurr'd to kindle ftrife, We find the friends we fancied we had won, Though num'rous once, reduc'd to few or none? Can gold grow worthlefs that has ftood the touch? No-gold they seem'd, but they were never fuch.

Horatio's fervant once, with bow and cringe,
Swinging the parlour-door upon its hinge,
Dreading a negative, and overaw'd

Left he fhould trefpafs, begg'd to go abroad.
Go, fellow!-whither ?-turning fhort about-
Nay-ftay at home-you're always going out.
'Tis but a step, fir, juft at the ftreet's end.-
For what? An please you, fir, to see a friend.
A friend! Horatio cried, and feem'd to start-
Yea marry fhalt thou, and with all my heart.
And fetch my cloak; for, though the night be raw,
I'll fee him too-the first I ever faw.

I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, And was his plaything often when a child ;

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