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Slide off the flippery sphere;
Moons with their months make hafty rounds,
The fun has pafs'd his vernal bounds,
And whirls about the year.
Let folly drefs in green and red,
Hartopp, mark the withering rofe,
Bright and lafting blifs below
Is all romance and dream;
Only the joys celestial flow
The pleasures that the fmiling day
And fhuffles in our woes.
Airy chance, and iron fate,
And all the race of ills create;
Now fiery joy, now fullen grief,
Commands the reins of human life,
The wheels impetuous roll;
The harneft hours and minutes ftrive, And days with stretching pinions drive-down fiercely on the goal.
Not half fo faft the galley flies
O'er the Venetian fea,
When fails, and oars, and labouring skies,
Contend to make her way.
Swift wings for all the flying hours
The God of time prepares, The reft lie ftill yet in their neft And grow for future years.
To THOMAS GUNSTON, Efq;
Cafimire, Book IV. Ode 12. imitated.
"Quid me latentem, &c."
HE noify world complains of me
That I fhould fhun their fight, and flee
Vifits, and crowds, and company.
Gunston, the lark dwells in her neft
Till the afcend the kies;
And in my closet I could reft
Till to the heavens I rife.
Yet they will urge,
"This private life
"Can never make
"And twenty doors are ftill at ftrife
"T'engage you for a guest."
Friend, fhould the towers of Windfor or Whitehall
To make my entertainment gay;
But short should be my stay,
Since a diviner fervice waits
T'employ my hours at home, and better fill the day.
When I within myself retreat,
I fhut my doors against the great;.
All the wide theatre of Me,
And view the various fcenes of my retiring foul;
Whether this Opera of life
Be acted well to gain the Plaudit of my God.
There's a day haftening, ('tis an awful day !)
The feveral parts we act on this wide ftage of clay :
These he approves, and thofe he blames,
And crowns perhaps a porter, and a prince he damns.
O if the judge from his tremendous feat
Shall not condemn what I have done,
I shall be happy though unknown,
Nor need the gazing rabble, nor the shouting ftreet.
I hate the Glory, friend, that fprings
Till Envy fhoots, and Fame receives the wound:
Down glory falls, and ftrikes the ground,
Rather let me be quite conceal'd from Fame;,
In fweet obfcurity,
Nor the loud world pronounce my little name!
Or if fociety be due
To keep our taste of pleasure new,
Here we could fit and pafs the hour,
Nor is herself fecure, but in a close retreat.
While fhe withdraws from public praife,
But if the once advance to light,
Her charms are loft in Envy's fight,
And Virtue stands the mark of univerfal fpight.
To Jo HN HARTOPP, Efq; afterwards Sir JOHN HAR TOP P, Bart.
HARTOPP, I love the foul that dares
Tread the temptations of his years
Beneath his youthful feet:
Fleetwood and all thy heavenly line
Look through the ftars, and fmile divine
Upon an heir fo great.
Young Hartopp knows this noble theme,
The noise, th' amufements, and the strife,
Flesh is the vileft and the leaft
Ingredient of our frame:
We're born to live above the beaft
Or quit the manly name.