Yet failing there he keeps his freedom ftill, TÀ Forc'd to live happily against his will:

'Tis not his fault, if too much wealth and pow'r

Break not his boafted quiet ev'ry hour. wb ngeri ja

And little Sid, for fimile renown'd, 21 5 17 25 Pleasure has always fought, but never found

His are fo bad, he fure ne'er thinks at all.en oson 24

Though all his thoughts on wine and women fall,

The flesh he lives upon is rank and frong; en

His meat and miftreffes are kept too long

Bnt fure we all miftake this pious man,alozi » 152W ni

Who mortifies his perfon all he can r

What we uncharitably take for fin,

Are only rules of this odd capuchin ;

For never hermit, under grave pretence, and 10

Has liv'd more contrary to common fenfe;

And 'tis a miracle, we may fuppofe, AMS
No naftiness offends his skillful nofe; i

Which from all flink can with peculiar art
Extract perfume, and effence from a f-t:-
Expecting fupper is his great delight;
He toils all day but to be drunk at night :
Then o'er his cups this night-bird chirping fits,
Till he takes Hewet and Jack Hall for wits.
Rocheller I defpife for want of wit,
Though thought to have a tail and cloven feet
For, while he mischief means to all mankind,
Himfelf alone the ill effects does find:

And

And fo like witches juftly fuffers fhamé,
Whofe harmless malice is so much the fame.
Falfe are his words, affected is his wit;
So often he does aim, fofeldom hit ;
To ev'ry face he cringes while he speaks,
But when the back is turn'd the head he breaks;
Mean in each action, lewd in ev'ry limb,
Manners themselves are mifchievous in him;
A proof that chance alone makes ev'ry creature
A very Killigrew, without good-nature.
For what a Beffus has he always liv'd,
And his own kickings notably contriv'd!
For there's the folly that's ftill mix'd with fear,
Cowards more blows than any hero bear;
Of fighting sparks fome may their pleasures say,
But 'tis a bolder thing to run away:

The world may yet forgive him all his ill,
For ev'ry fault does prove his penance ftill:
Falfely he falls into some dang'rous noose,
And then as meanly labours to get loofc:
And life foinfamous is better quitting,
Spent in base injury and low fubmitting.
I'd like to have left out his poetry;

Forgot by all almost as well as me.

Sometimes he has fome humour, never wit :
And if it rarely, very rarely, hit,

Tis under fo much nafty rubbish laid,
To find it out's the cinderwoman's trade;
Who, for the wretched remnants of a fire,
Muft toil all day in afhes and in mire.

So lewdly dull his idle works appear,

The wretched texts deferve no comments here;
Where one poor thought fometimes, left all alone,
For a whole page of dulnefs mufl aton

How vain a thing is man, and how unwife
Ev'n he, who would himself the most defpife!
I, who fo wife and humble feem to be,
Now my own vanity and pride can't fee,
While the world's nonfenfe is fo fharply fhewn,
We pull down others but to raise our own:
That we may angels feem, we paint them elves,
And are but fatires to fer up ourselves.
I (who have all this while been finding fault,
Ev'n with my mafter, who first satire taught ;
And did by that deferibe the talk fo hard,
It feems ftupendous and above reward)
Now labour with unequal force to climb
That lofty hill, unreach'd by former time;
'Tis just that I should to the bottom fall;
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

HYMN

HYMN ON SOLITUDE.

By JAMES THOMSON.

HALL, mildly-pleafing Solitude,
Companion of the wife and good:

But from whofe holy piercing eye,
The herd of fools and villains fly.
Oh! how I love with thee to walk,
And liften to thy whisper'd talk,
Which innocence and truth imparts,
And melts the moft obdurate hearts.
A thousand fhapes you wear with ease,
And fill in ev'ry fhape you please.
Now wrapt in fome myfterious dream,
A lone philofopher you feem;
Now quick from hill to vale you fly,
And now you fweep the vaulted sky,
A fhepherd next you haunt the plain,
And warble forth your oaten ftrain ;
A lover now, with all the grace:
Of that sweet paffion in your face =
Then, calm'd to friendship, you affume
The gentle-looking Hartford's bloom,
C3

As, with her Mufidora, fhe
(Her Mufidora fond of thee)
Amid the long withdrawing vale,
Awakes the rival'd nightingale.

Thine is the balmy breath of morn
Juft as the dew-bent rofe is born;
And while meridian fervors beat,
Thine is the woodland dumb retreat ;
But chief, when evening scenes decay,
And the faint landscape fwims away,C
Thine is the doubtful foft decline,
And that best hour of mufing thine,como VP
Defcending angels blefs thy train,
The virtues of the fage and swain ;
Plain innocence, in white array'd,

Religion's beams around thee fhine,,5. A
And cheer thy glooms with light divine:
About thee sports sweet Liberty;
And rapt Urania fings to thee.

Oh, let me pierce thy fecret cell.

And in thy deep receffes dwell.

Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill,
When meditation has her fill,

my

I just may caft careless eyes
Where London's fpiry. turrets rife;

6

Think of its crimes, its eares, its pain,
Then shield me in the woods again.

THE