And by all Sages understood
To be the chief of human Good,
Shou'd acting die, nor leave behind
Some lafting Pleasure in the Mind,
Which by Remembrance will affwage
Grief, Sickness, Poverty, and Age;
And strongly shoot a radiant Dart
To fhine thro' Life's declining Part.
Say, Stella, feel you no Content,
Reflecting on a Life well spent :
Your skilful Hand employ'd to fave
Defpairing Wretches from the Grave;
And then fupporting with your Store
Thofe, whom you dragg'd from Death before;
So Providence on Mortals waits,
Preferving what it first creates :
Your gen`rous Boldnefs to defend
An innocent and abfent Friend;
That Courage, which can make you just
To Merit humbled in the Dust ;
The Deteftation you exprefs
For Vice in all its glitt'ring Drefs:
That Patience under tort'ring Pain,
Where stubborn Stoicks wou'd complain.
Must these like empty Shadows pass,
Or Forms reflected from a Glafs ?
Or mere Chimæra's in the Mind,
That fly, and leave no Marks behind?
Does not the Body thrive and grow
By Food of twenty Years ago?
And, had it not been ftill fupply'd,
It must a thousand Times have dy'd :
Then, who with Reafon can maintain
That no Effects of Food remain ?
And, is not Virtue in Mankind
The Nutriment, that feeds the Mind?
Upheld by each good Action paft,
And still continu'd by the last :
Then who with Reason can pretend,
That all Effects of Virtue end?
Believe me, Stella, when you show
That true Contempt for Things below,
Nor prize your Life for other Ends
Than merely to oblige your Friends;
Your former Actions claim their Part,
And join to fortify your Heart.
For Virtue in her daily Race,
Like Janus, bears a double Face;
Looks back with Joy where fhe has gone,
And therefore goes with Courage on:
She at your fickly Couch will wait,
And guide you to a better State.
O then, whatever Heav'n intends,
Take Pity on your pitying Friends;
Nor let your Ills affect your Mind,
To fancy they can be unkind;
Me, furely me, you ought to spare,
Who gladly wou'd your Suff'rings fhare;
Or give my Scrap of Life to You,
And think it far beneath your Due;
You to whose Care fo oft I owe,
That I'm alive to tell you fo.
**To Mrs. M. B. fent on her BirthDay, June 15.
H! be thou bleft with all that Heav'n can fend,
Long Health, long Youth, long Plea-
fure, and a Friend!
Not with thofe Toys the Female Race admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire:
Not as the World its pretty Slaves rewards,
A Youth of Frolicks, an Old Age of Cards;
Fair to no Purpose, artful to no End:
Young without Lovers, old without a Friend;
A Fop their Paffion, but their Prize a Sot;
Alive ridiculous, and dead forgot!
Let Joy, or Eafe, let Affluence, or Content,
And the gay Conscience of a Life well spent,
Calm ev'ry Thought, infpirit ev'ry Grace,
Glow in thy Heart, and finile upon thy Face!
Let Day improve on Day, and Year on Year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender Frame destroy
In fome foft Dream, or Extafy of Joy :
Peaceful fleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come !
* Song. By a Perfon of Quality.
SAID to my Heart, between Sleeping and
Waking,
Thou wild Thing, that always art leaping
or aking,
What Black, Brown, or Fair, in what Clime, in what Nation,
By turns has not taught thee a Pit---a---patation ?
Thus accus'd, the wild Thing gave this fober Reply:
See the Heart without Motion, tho' Calia pafs
Not the Beauty fhe has, or the Wit that she borrows,
Gives the Eye any Joys, or the Heart any Sorrows.
When our Sappho appears, the whofe Wit fo
I am forc'd to applaud with the reft of Man
Whatever the fays, is with Spirit and Fire;. Ev'ry Word I attend: but I only admire.
Prudentia as vainly would put in her Claim, Ever gazing on Heaven, tho' Man in her Aim: 'Tis Love, not Devotion, that turns up her Eyes;
Thofe Stars of this World are too good for the
But Cloe fo lively, fo easy, so fair,
Her Wit fo genteel, without Art, without Care! When She comes in my way, the Motion, the Pain,
The Leapings, the Akings, return all again.
O wonderful Creature! a Woman of Reason! Never grave out of Pride, never gay out of Seafon !
When so easy to guess who this Angel should be,
Would one think Mrs. H----d ne'er dreamt it was She?
F all the Girls that e'er were feen,
There's none fo fine as Nelly,
For charming Face, and Shape, and
Mien,
And what's not fit to tell ye.
Oh! the turn'd Neck, and fmooth white Skin,
Of lovely dearest Nelly !
For many a Swain it well had been,
Had the ne'er past by Calai.
For when as Nelly came to France, (Invited by her Coufins) Acrofs the Tuilleries each Glance
Kill'd Frenchmen by whole Dozens.
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