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like the dog to his vomit, and the fow to her wallowing in the mire, and are every day in danger of being devoured soul and body by our own inordinate passions.

- P.S. I was this day shewn 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:

My Dear, V OULD you have me neglect the very business I came V upon, to protect you from the ignorant, the mad, and the enthusiastical ? 'Tis impious and vain for people to pretend to fly from the hand of heav'n. The Almighty can Strike every part of the globe with the same ease as one particular spot; and consequently you are as fafe in London, as if you were in York, Exeter, or any where else.

Your apprehension, that the wickedness of a few may call down destruction on the whole, is to the last degree irreligious, and repugnant to the known attributes of the Almighty. Pray, is it consistent 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 secret of infinite value, yet I may venture to tell it to you ; and that is,


Viriue, my dear, needs no defence,
No arms, but its own innocence.

The steward who keeps his accounts clear and ready bas lanc'd, hath no reason to fear his lord's calling to inspect them. Now this secret, my dear, I'll give you leave to communicate to your friends and acquaintance, as I shall to

mine. minç. But he fure to give it the air of a secret, or 'twill have no effect; for the finest, the richest gems lose their value, by growing too common.

I am, my dear,

Your truly affectionate husband,

J. B.

Part of the second CHORUS in the


M O T wealth a monarch can create,

I Nor purple robe of folemn state ;
The awful brow, majestic port,
High-blazing roof, or gorgeous court.

He is a king, who void of fear,
With manly heart and conscience clear,
Can face the rude inconstant crowd,
And big-mouth'd faction, bellowing loud ; ;
Nor raging frown, nor suppliant knee,
Can undermines his just decree.

Not all the rising morn reveals,
Or ocean's dark abyss conceals,
Not all the Tagus' golden tide
Does in his secret caverns hide,
Nor wastes, where howling monsters stray,
Can make his courage melt away.

He unappal'd can lift his eye,
Where thunder roars, and lightnings fly;
Not raging Eurus rushing falt
Upon his fea-amazing blast;
The Adriatick boiling high,
And loudly menacing the sky;
Nor brandish'd sword, nor fate's own dart,
Can find out terrour in his heart.


From summit of exalted mind
He views the world all unconfind;
A safe afylum there enjoys
From all its rage, and pomp, and noise ;
And when the gods demand his breath,
He meets his doom, and smiles at death.

Each honest mind's a spacious realm,
Where virtue reigns, and reason guides the helm.-
In vain the Parthian brings from far
His glittering implements of war,
Envenom’d shafts, and flying horse,
And all the means of savage 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 breast triumphant reigns,
And meaner empire he disdains.

I envy not the mighty name Its lofty pinnacle of fame;

The sleepless monarch's anxious slate,
Nor borrow'd splendour of the great.

Mine be content and heav'n-born peue,
With sweet retirement and ease.
Unknown to Rome's imperial pride,
( may my years in silence glide !
And when the vision's passed by,
An old plebeian let me die !

Since death in all his terrour dreft
Alarms the unexpecting breast,
Unwise is he, who in the crowd
Forgets his coffin and his shroud.

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Au ADDRESS to an House in F


THOU once lov'd abode of an heavenly fair,

1 Ah! why that fad look, and disconsolate air ? Methinks; thou forsaken, I hear thee complain The loss 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, so mild and so 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 sister of old,
When closing in Numbers her dear shepherd's eyes,
To steal a fond kiss the abandon’d the skies :
From thy long eclipse break, and with one gentle smile
Dispel all his fears, and his forrows beguile: -

As the pale sleepless miser, his bags stoln away;
Oft visits the shrine, where his God Mammon lay ;
There broods o'er his loss, and indulges his grief,
And fighs to the winds all in vain for relief;
So I that dear mansion still hover around,
And haunt even dreaming that consecrate ground,

In happy concealment how oft did I gaze,
With transports unsated on that lovely face!
That aspect, where sweetness and modesty strove
Which most should inspire with wonder and love!

But oh, profane Muse, 'ne'er attempt to display, In her eye-beams what languishing meanings did play! What smiles and soft glances so incocent stole On love's gentle embally, warın from her foul ! . U


How beauty, in blushes drest like a sweet bride,
Sat thron’d on her check in vermilion pride!
Her person how lovely! how graceful her air !
With a temper as mild as her visage is fair!
Her manners so artless, and yet so refin'd!
So humble and yet so exalted her mind!
Her passions 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 saint:
With graces the Gods so adorn'd her all o'er,
To love is presumption, then, mortals, 'adore.

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Itane parâsti te, ut spes nulla reliqua in te fiet tibi ?


X S, banish'd from th' industrious hive,
F A DRONE, despairing now to live,
Travers’d with mournful hum the air,
He fell into a Spider's snare.
In hopes to break the slender chain,
His wings he shook, but shook in vain :
The more he strove, entangled more,
He gave the fruitless labour o'er.

Ah, most unhappy Drone! he cry’d; The means of life were first deny’d:


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