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And profligate abusers of a world
Created fair so much in vain for them,
Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe,
Allur’d by my report : but sure no less,
That, self-condemn’d, they must negle&t the prize,
And what they will not taste, must yet approve.
What we admire we praise ; and when we praise,
Advance it into notice, that its worth
Acknowledyd, others may admire it too.
I therefore recommend, though at the risk
Of popular disgust, yet boldly still,
The cause of piety and facred truth,
And virtue, and those scenes which God ordain'd
Should best secure them and promote them most ;
Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive
Forsaken, or through folly not enjoy’d.
Pure is the nymph, though lib'ral of her smiles,
And chaste, though unconfin'd, whom I extol.
Not as the prince in Shushan, when he callid,
Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth
To grace the full pavilion. His design
Was but to boast his own peculiar good,
Which all might view with envy, none partake.
My charmer is not mine alone ; my sweets,
And the that sweetens all my bitters too,



Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form
And lineaments divine I trace a hand
That errs not, and find raptures still renew'd,
Is free to all men, universal prize.
Strange that so fair a creature should yet want
Admirers, and be destin'd to divide
With meaner objects, ev’n the few she finds !
Stripp'd of her ornaments, her leaves and flow'rsa,
She loses all her influence. Cities then
Attract us, and negle&ed Nature pines,
Abandon'd, as unworthy of our love.
But are not wholesome airs, though unperfum’d
By roses; and clear suns, though scarcely felt,

if-unharmonious, yet secure
From clamour, and whole very filence charms,
To be preferr'd to smoke, to the eclipse
That Metropolitan volcanos make,
Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day

And to the ftir of commerce, driving flow,
And thund’ring loud, with his ten thousand wheels ?
They would be, were not madness in the head,
And folly in the heart ; were England now
What England was, plain, hospitable, 'kind,
And undebauch'd. But we have bid farewel

To .

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ARGUMENT of the Fourth Book.

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The post comes in.--The news-paper is read.- The

world contemplated at a distance.- Address to Winter.-The rural amusements of a winter evening compared with the fashionable ones. - Address to evening.- A brown study.--Fall of snow in the evening.-The waggoner. --A poor family piece.-The rural thief. Public houfes.--The multitude of them censured. The

farmer's daughter, what she was.What she is. The fimplicity of country manners almost loft.-- Causes of the change. - Desertion of the country by the rich. Neglect of magiftrates.-The militia principally in fault. -The new. recruit and his tranformation.-Reflection on bodies corporate.-The love of rural objects natural to all, and never to be totally extinguished,


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ARK! 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yon

der bridge, That with its wearisome but needful length Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon Sees her unwrinkled face refle&ed bright ; He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen

locks, News from all nations lumb'ring at his back. True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind, Yet careless what he brings, his one concern Is to conduct it to the destin'd inn,


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And having dropp'd th' expe&cd bag-pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet chearful : messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some,
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writers' checks,
Fast as the periods from his Auent quill,
Or charg'd with am'rous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh th' important budget I usherd in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings ? have our troops awak'd ?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic waye ?
Is India free? and does she wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to set th' imprison'd wranglers free, .
And give them voice and utt'rance once again. .


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