Yon antient prude, whose wither'd features fhow
She might be young fome forty years ago,
Her elbows pinion'd close upon her hips,

Her head erect, her fan upon her lips,
Her eye-brows arch'd, her eyes both gone aftray
To watch yon am'rous couple in their play,
With boney and unkerchief'd neck defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies,
And fails with lappet-head and mincing airs
Duely at clink of bell, to morning pray❜rs.
To thrift and parfimony much inclin'd,
She

yet allows herself that boy behind;

The fhiv'ring urchin, bending as he goes,

With flipfhod heels, and dew drop at his nofe,
His predeceffors coat advanc'd to wear,

Which future pages are yet doom'd to share,
Carries her bible tuck'd beneath his arm,

And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.

She, half an angel in her own account,

Doubts not hereafter with the faints to mount,

Though

Though not a grace appears on ftrictest search,
But that she fafts, and item, goes to church.
Confcious of age she recollects her youth,

And tells, not always with an eye to truth,
Who fpann'd her waift, and who, where'er he came,
Scrawl'd upon glafs Mifs Bridget's lovely name,
Who ftole her flipper, fill'd it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper ev'ry day.
Of temper as invenom'd as an afp,
Cenforious, and her every word a wasp,
In faithful mem❜ry fhe records the crimes
Or real, or fictitious, of the times,

Laughs at the reputations fhe has torn,

And holds them dangling at arms length in fcorn.
Such are the fruits of fanctimonious pride,
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified.

Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray'rs,

Where hermits and where Bramins meet with

theirs,

Your portion is with them: nay, never frown, But, if you please, some fathoms lower down.

Artist attend your brushes and your paintProduce them-take a chair-now draw a Saint

Oh forrowful and fad ! the ftreaming tears
Channel her cheeks, a Niobe appears.

Is this a Saint? Throw tints and all away,
True piety is chearful as the day,

Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan
For others woes, but fmiles upon her own.

What purpose has the King of Saints in view?

Why falls the gospel like a gracious dew?
To call up plenty from the teeming earth,
Or curfe the defart with a tenfold dearth?
Is it that Adam's offspring may be fav'd
From fervile fear, or be the more enflav'd?
To loose the links that gall'd mankind before,
Or bind them fafter on, and add still more?
The freeborn Chriftian has no chains to prove,
Or if a chain, the golden one of love;
No fear attends to quench his glowing fires,
What fear he feels his gratitude inspires.

Shall

Shall he for fuch deliv'rance freely wrought, Recompenfe ill? He trembles at the thought: His mafters int'reft and his own combin'd, Prompt ev'ry movement of his heart and mind; Thought, word, and deed, his liberty evince, His freedom is the freedom of a Prince.

Man's obligations infinite, of course

His life fhould prove that he perceives their force, His utmost he can render is but small,

The principle and motive all in all.

You have two fervants-Tom, an arch, fly rogue,

From top to toe the Geta now in vogue ;

Genteel in figure, eafy in address,

Moves without noife, and fwift as an exprefs,

Reports a meffage with a pleafing grace,
Expert in all the duties of his place:

Say, on what hinge does his obedience move?
Has he a world of gratitude and love?

No, not a spark-'tis all mere sharpers play;
He likes your house, your housemaid and your pay;

Reduce his wages, or get rid of her,

Tom quits you, with, your most obedient Sir

The dinner ferv'd, Charles takes his usual stand, Watches your eye, anticipates command, Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail, And if he but fufpects a frown, turns pale; Confults all day your int'reft and your cafe, Richly rewarded if he can but please,

And proud to make his firm attachment known, To fave your life would nobly rifque his own. Now, which stands highest in your serious thought?

Charles, without doubt, fay you-and fo he

ought;

One act that from a thankful heart proceeds,
Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.

Thus heav'n approves as honest and fincere,
The work of gen'rous love and filial fear,
But with averted eyes th'omnifcient judge,
Scorns the base hireling and the flavish drudge.

`Where