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No friendly moon or stars appear
To guide their fteerage to the shore:
For thee the weary foldier prays;
Furious in fight the fons of Thrace,
And Medes, that wear majestic by their fide
A full-charg'd quiver's decent pride,
Gladly with thee would pafs inglorious days,


Renounce the warrior's tempting praise," And buy thee, if thou might'st be fold, With gems, and purple vefts, and ftores of plunder'd




But neither boundless wealth, nor guards that wait Around the conful's honour'd gate,

Nor anti-chambers with attendants fill'd,

The mind's unhappy tumults can abate,

Or banish sullen cares, that fly

Across the gilded rooms of state,

And their foul nefts, like swallows, build


Close to the palace-roofs, and towers that pierce the sky.
Much lefs will Nature's modeft wants supply;
And happier lives the homely fwain,
Who, in fome cottage, far from noise,
His few paternal goods enjoys,

Nor knows the fordid luft of gain,

Nor with Fear's tormenting pain
His hovering fleeps deftroys.



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Vain man! that in a narrow space

At endless game projects the daring spear!
For fhort is life's uncertain race;
Then why, capricious mortal! why
Doft thou for happiness repair


To diftant climates, and a foreign air? Fool! from thyfelf thou canst not fly, Thyself, the fource of all thy care. So flies the wounded stag, provok'd with pain, Bounds o'er the spacious downs in vain ; The feather'd torment sticks within his fide, And from the fmarting wound a purple tide Marks all his way with blood, and dyes the graffy plain.


But fwifter far is execrable Care

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Than tags, or winds that through the skies 55
Thick-driving fnows and gather'd tempests bear;
Pursuing Care the failing fhip out-flies,
Climbs the tall veffel's painted fides;

Nor leaves arm'd squadrons in the field,
But with the marching horfemen rides,


And dwells alike in courts and camps, and makes all

places yield.


Then, fince no ftaté 's compleatly bleft,
Let's learn the bitter to allay
With gentle mirth, and wifely gay
Enjoy at least the present day,

And leave to fate the rest.



Nor with vain fear of ills to come

Anticipate th' appointed doom.
Soon did Achilles quit the ftage,

The hero fell by fudden death;

While Tithon to a tedious wafting age

Drew his protracted breath.

And thus old partial Time, my friend,

Perhaps unafk'd to worthlefs me

Thofe hours of lengthen'd life may lend,

Which he'll refufe to thee.




Thee fhining wealth and plenteous joys furround,
And, all thy fruitful fields around,
Unnumber'd herds of cattle ftray.


Thy harness'd steeds with fprightly voice Make neighbouring vales and hills rejoice, While finoothly thy gay chariot flies o'er the swift

meafur'd way.

To me the stars, with less profufion kind,
An humble Fortune have affign'd,

And no untuneful Lyric vein,

But a fincere contented mind,

That can the vile malignant crowd difdain.

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ONCE, on a folemn feftal day

Held by th' immortals in the skies,

Flora had fummon'd all the Deities

That rule o'er gardens, or survey
The birth of greens and fpringing flowers,
And thus addrefs'd the genial powers.

Ye fhining graces of my courtly train,
The cause of this assembly know !
In fovereign majesty I reign

O'er the gay flowery universe below;
Yet, my increafing glory to maintain,
queen I'll chufe, with spotlefs honour fair,
The delegated crown to wear.


Let me your counfel and affiftance ask,
T'accomplish this momentous task.

The Deities that stood around,
At first return'd a murmuring found;
Then faid, Fair goddess, do you know
The factious feuds this muft create,
What jealous rage and mutual hate
Among the rival flowers will grow ?

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The vileft thistle that infefts the plain

Will think his tawdry painted pride Deferves the crown; and, if deny'd, Perhaps with traitor-plots moleft your reign. Vain are your fears, Flora reply'd,

'Tis fix'dand hear how I'll the caufe decide.

Deep in a venerable wood,

Where Oaks, with vocal skill endued,
Did wondrous oracles of old impart,
Beneath a little hill's inclining fide
A grotto 's feen where nature's art
Is exercis'd in all her fmiling pride.
Retir'd in this fweet graffy cell,

A lovely wood-nymph once did dwell.




She always pleas'd; for more than mortal fire

Shone in her eyes, and did her charms inspire;

A Dryad bore the beauteous nymph, a Sylvan was her fire.

'Chafte, wife, devout, the ftill obey'd

With humble zeal heaven's dread commands, 40

To every action afk'd our aid,

And oft before our altars pray'd;

Pure was her heart, and undefil'd her hands.

She's dead and from her fweet remains

The wondrous mixture I would take,


This much defir'd, this perfect flower to make. Affift, and thus, with our transforming pains, We'll dignify the garden-beds, and grace our favourite



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