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Profpect?

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Now Swords, and warring Arms the Prospect
Protended Spears that glitter from afar,
And' sulph’rous Tubes ; dread Equipage of

War.
The Din of Fight begins; a direful Sound
Flies thro' the Dome, and Thakes the Walls

around, From the burft Volumes sputt'ring Sulphurs toft Promiscuous Hiss, and Sounds in Sounds are lost. Confufion reigns; the field of War bespread, Reveals, unhappy View! her Heaps of Dead: Thiek on all Hands, extended on the Stage, Slain Troops appear, the Guilt of Civil Rage.

But when they have allay'd their Martial Ire, And their calm Spirits breath a fober Fire; The War concluded. They resume their Parts, Repeat their former Toils, and various Arts.

Now off the Heroes of the Sacred Page; Great Souls! the Product of a better Age, Redeem'd and rescu'd from the filent Urn, On this low Stage in Miniature return. There may, you see a venerable Band Of Patriarch-Sires in hoary Order ftand; Their Faces furrow'd, as they once appear'd, And their Chins cloath'd with filver Lengths of

Beard. So, long consuming Age from Day to Day, Contracted TITHON by a slow Decay, From wasting Stage to Stage he gradual past, And“ funk into a Grashopper at Taft. Now fing wer whence the Puppet - Axtors

' came, What hidden Power supplies the hollow Frame; What cunning Agent o'er the Scenes presides, And all the secret Operation glidęs.

The Turner shapes the useless Log with Care,
And forces it a Human Form to wear :
With the sharp Steel he works the Wooden Race,
And lends the Timber an adopted Facé.
Tenacious Wires the Legs and Feet unite,
And Arms connected keep the Shoulders right.
Adapted Organs to fit Organs join,
And Joints with Joints, and Limbs with Limbs

combine. Then adds he active Wheels and Springs unseen, By which he after turns the smalf Machine,

That moves at Pleasure by the secret Wires; And last his voice the senseless Trunk inspires.

FROM such a Union of Inventions came,
And to Perfection grew the Puppet Frame;
The Workman's Mark its Origin reveal,
And own the Traces of the forming Steel.
Hence are its Dance, its Motions, and its Tone,
Its squeaking Voice, and Accents not its own.

J IN I S.

T

THE

THE

Morning's Salutation:

OR, A

Friendly Conference

Between

A Preacher, and a Family of his Flock; upon

the 30th of January.

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Preacher.
OOD Morrow to thee: how doft do?
I only juft called in to show
My Love, upon this blessed Day,
As I by_chance, came by this way.

Grace, Peace, and Faith be unto thee, And all this chofen Family.

Hasband.
My Soul does very much rejoyce
To see thee, and to hear thy Voice:

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I bless the Lord to find thee thus
Abound in Health as well as us,
And hope thou art dispos'd to stay
A while, and comfort us this Day.

Preacber.
I think, I shall not stay to dine,
But the Lord's, Will be done, not mine,
Where's thy good Wife? methinks I want
To lee her, she's a pious Saint
In Wedlock thou art truly bless'd,
Of Women she's the very best.
Pray let her know that I'am here,
And tell her I defire to see her.

Husband.
The Lord preserve her! here she comes,
Sh’as just been sweeping out her Rooms,
You must excuse her Huswifes Dress,
She's always doing, I profess.

Wife.
I'm very happy, worthy Sir,
To see so great a Stranger here.
I hope good Madam Cant is well,
And pritty Mrs. Abigall,
Dear Sir, I wish, I could have seen
Them here, how bless'd should I have been ;
Tho' I'm alham'd, I must confess,
T'appear in such a homely Dress.

Preacher.
Thou'rt a Good Woman, thou haft Grace,
That beft adorns a beauteous Face;
I think thy Weeds become thee well,
Thou would not dress like Fezabel.
To tell the Truth, I've seldom seen
A Wite more lovely or more clean,
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Give

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Give me thy Hand thou fruitful Bride ;
The Lord at all times be thy Guide;
How do thy little Comforts fare.
Those tender Twigs, their Parents Cares
Pray call 'em hither, let me bless
Those pritty hopeful Babes of Grace.

Wife.
Here, Aram, come, my little Saint,
Where's your low Bow to Mr. Cant?
Daughter! Where art? Come hither Rutb,
Fie, pull your Fingers from your Mouth.
Look up, my Dear, hold up your Head.
Where's your fine Courtesy? There's my Maid.

Preacber.
Lord sanctifie these Lambs, and grant
That they thy Grace may, never want:
Shew'em 'thy Way, that they may be
A Comfort to thy Spouse and thee;
The Lord sufficiently hath shew'd
His Love to both in such a Brood.
May they still greater Blessings grow
To thee, that brought 'em forth in Woe,
And as their Years encrease, inherit
A double portion of the Spirit.

Wife,
Thanks to you, rev'rend Sir, may Heaven
Reward the Blessing you have given.
Rebecca, take my Closet Key
And fetch that Bottle unto me
Thy Master brought me home last Night
For Palm, and said, he knew 'twas right;
And with the Bottle pray bring in
A Glass, take care you wash it clean.

Preacher.
I hope thou doft not think, that I
Drink Wine, except I'm Gck or dry; I

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