But narrow minds ftill make pretence And claim a fhare with worms. He that has treafures of his own Locke hath a foul wide as the fea, Nor feel a thought confin'd. To JOHN SHUTE, Efq; (afterwards Lord BARRINGTON.) On Mr. LOCKE's dangerous Sickness, some time after he had retired to ftudy the Scriptures. ND must the man of wondrous mind ΑΝ June, 1704. (Now his rich thoughts are juft refin'd) Reafon at length fubmits to wear The wings of Faith; and lo, they rear Her chariot high, and nobly bear Her prophet to the skies. Go, Go, friend, and wait the prophet's flight, Shute is the darling of his years, Thus when our follies, or our faults, The fallies of whose youthful wit To Mr. WILLIAM NOKES FRIENDSHIP. FRIENDSHIP, thou charmer of the mind, Thou sweet deluding ill, The brigheft minute mortals find, And sharpelt hour we feel. Fate has divided all our fhares In love the comforts and the cares Are mix'd and join'd again. 17023 But *The Intereft of England, written by Mr. Shute, But whilft in floods our forrow rolls, This dear delight of mingling fouls Oh! why fhould blifs depart in hafte, Yet never let our hearts divide, Nor death diffolve the chain : For love and joy were once ally'd, And must be join'd again.. To NATHANAEL GOULD, Efq; afterwards Sir NATHANAEL GOULD, 'T IS not by fplendour, or by state, My Mufe takes measures of a king: A more majeftic thing. Frown on me, friend, if e'er I boast And wear a bigger load of earth than they. 1704. Let Let the vain world falute me loud, When Gould commands his fhips to run Yet ftill the man's the fame: But trust me, Gould, 'tis lawful pride To rife above the mean control Of flesh and fenfe, to which we 're ty'd; This is ambition that becomes a foul. We fteer our courfe up through the skies; We ken the heavenly fhore with longing eyes, * Member of parliament for a port in Suffex. To Slaves to the wind we puff away, And to the ground we tread. 'Tis air that lends us life, when firft The vital bellows heave: Our flesh we borrow of the duft; Rich juleps drawn from precious ore And plants, and roots, of barbarous name, Torn from the Indian fhore. Thus we fupport our tottering flesh, Our cheeks refume the rofe afresh, When bark and steel play well their game To fave our finking breath, And Gibfon, with his awful power, Refcues the poor precarious hour From the demands of death. But |