like the dog to his vomit, and the fow to her wallowing in the mire, and are every day in danger of being devoured foul and body by our own inordinate paffions.
P. S. I was this day fhewn a letter from a tradesman in the country to his wife in town, which, in my opinion, contains a better Noftrum for Earthquakes than the above, and is as follows:
WOULD you have me neglect the very bufinefs I came upon, to protect you from the ignorant, the mad, and the enthufiaftical? 'Tis impious and vain for people to pretend to fly from the hand of heav'n. The Almighty can trike every part of the globe with the fame ease as one particular spot; and confequently you are as fafe in London, as if you were in York, Exeter, or any where else.
Your apprehenfion, that the wickedness of a few may call down deftruction on the whole, is to the laft degree irreligious, and repugnant to the known attributes of the Almighty. Pray, is it confiftent with the mercy and justice of God to punish any man for the fins of his neighbour? There is one way, my dear, to be safe and easy under every accident of this fort; and tho' it is a fecret of infinite value, yet I may venture to tell it to you; and that is,
TO LIVE SO AS TO BE ALWAYS READY TO DIE.
Virtue, my dear, needs no defence,
No arms, but its own innocence.
The fteward who keeps his accounts clear and ready balanc'd, hath no reafon to fear his lord's calling to infpect them. Now this fecret, my dear, I'll give you leave to communicate to your friends and acquaintance, as I fhall to
mine. But be fure to give it the air of a fecret, or 'twill have no effect; for the finest, the richeft gems lofe their value, by growing too common.
Your truly affectionate hufband,
Part of the Second CHORUS in the
THYESTES of SENECA.
OT wealth a monarch can create,
Nor purple robe of folemn ftate;
The awful brow, majestic port,
High-blazing roof, or gorgeous court.
He is a king, who void of fear,
With manly heart and confcience clear,
Can face the rude inconftant crowd,
And big-mouth'd faction, bellowing loud;
Nor raging frown, nor fuppliant knee,
Can undermines-his just decree.
Not all the rifing morn reveals,
Or ocean's dark abyfs conceals,
Not all the Tagus' golden tide
Does in his fecret caverns hide,
Nor waftes, where howling monsters ftray,
Can make his courage melt away.
He unappal'd can lift his eye,
Where thunder roars, and lightnings fly :
Not raging Eurus rushing fast
Upon his fea-amazing blaft;
The Adriatick boiling high,
And loudly menacing the fky;
Nor brandish'd fword, nor fate's own dart,
Can find out terrour in his heart.
From fummit of exalted mind
He views the world all unconfin'd;
A fafe afylum there enjoys
From all its rage, and pomp, and noife;
And when the gods demand his breath,
He meets his doom, and fmiles at death.
Each honeft mind's a spacious realm,
Where virtue reigns, and reafon guides the helm.—
In vain the Parthian brings from far
His glittering implements of war,
Envenom'd fhafts, and flying horfe,
And all the means of favage force ;
In vain with wily speed he flies,
And glancing back, his hunter dies.
Who knows no fear, and he alone,
Enjoys a fceptre and a throne;
In his own breaft triumphant reigns,
And meaner empire he difdains.
I envy not the mighty name
Its lofty pinnacle of fame;
The fleepless monarch's anxious flate,
Nor borrow'd fplendour of the great.
Mine be content and heav'n-born peace,
With fweet retirement and ease.
Unknown to Rome's imperial pride,
O may my years in filence glide!
And when the vifion's paffed by,
An old plebeian let me die!
Since death in all his terrour dreft
Alarms the unexpecting breast,
Unwife is he, who in the crowd
Forgets his coffin and his fhroud.
Au ADDRESS to an HOUSE in FE STREET.
HOU once lov'd abode of an heavenly fair,
Ah! why that fad look, and difconfolate air?
Methinks, thou forfaken, I hear thee complain
The lofs thou haft fuffer'd, and murmur in vain.
Ye doors, on your hinges as flowly ye turn,
Creak dismal all day, and in treble notes mourn :
Ye windows, where CYNTHIA, fo mild and fo bright,
Beam'd on mortals beneath, and supply'd 'em with lights
Since the in another horizon does shine,
Forever look dull, and in darkness repine.
Ah! rival of day, thy ENDYMION behold,
As, veil'd in a cloud, thy fair fister of old,
When clofing in flumbers her dear fhepherd's eyes,
To fteal a fond kifs fhe abandon'd the fkies:
From thy long eclipse break, and with one gentle smile
Difpel all his fears, and his forrows beguile.
As the pale fleepless mifer, his bags ftol'n away,
Oft vifits the shrine, where his God Mammon lay;
There broods o'er his lofs, and indulges his grief,
And fighs to the winds all in vain for relief;
So I that dear manfion ftill hover around,
And haunt even dreaming that confecrate ground.
In happy concealment how oft did I gaze,
With transports unfated on that lovely face!
That afpect, where sweetness and modesty ftrove
Which most should infpire with wonder and love!
But oh, profane Mufe, ne'er attempt to difplay,
In her eye-beams what languishing meanings did play
What smiles and foft glances fo innocent ftole
On love's gentle embally, warm from her foul!
How beauty, in blushes dreft like a fweet bride,
Sat thron'd on her check in vermilion pride!
Her perfon how lovely! how graceful her air!
With a temper as mild as her vifage is fair!
Her manners so artless, and yet so refin'd!
So humble and yet fo exalted her mind!
Her paffions so tender and warm yet so chaste,
Like the vestal's pale fire, they burn in her breaft!
So poignant her wit, and her judgment fo clear !
So female her heart is, and yet fo fincere!
But cease, fond description, nor labour to paint
The form of an angel or worth of a faint:
With graces the Gods fo adorn'd her all o'er,
To love is prefumption,——then, mortals, adore.
The DRONE and the SPIDER, A FABLE.
Itane parâfti te, ut fpes nulla reliqua in te fiet tibi?
S, banish'd from th' induftrious hive,
A DRONE, defpairing now to live,
Travers'd with mournful hum the air,
He fell into a SPIDER'S fnare.
In hopes to break the flender chain,
His wings he fhook, but fhook in vain:
The more he ftrove, entangled more,
gave the fruitlefs labour o'er.
Ah, most unhappy Drone! he cry'd; The means of life were first deny'd:
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