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And therefore issued his decree,
That the two parties straight agree.

When both obey'd the god's commands,
And Love and Riches join'd their hands.
What wondrous change in each was wrought,
Believe me, fair! surpasses thought.

If Love had many charms before,

He now had charms, ten thousand more.
If Wealth had serpents in his breast,
They now are dead, or lull'd to rest.
Beauty, that vain affected thing,
Who join'd the hymeneal ring,
Approach'd with round unthinking face,
And thus the trifler states her case-

She said, that Love's complaints, 'twas
known,

Exactly tallied with her own;

That Wealth had learn'd the felon's arts,
And robb'd her of a thousand hearts;
Desiring judgment against Wealth,
For falsehood, perjury, and stealth:
All which she could on oath depose,
And hoped the court would slit his nose.
But Hymen, when he heard her name,
Call'd her an interloping dame;

Look'd through the crowd with angry state,
And blamed the porter at the gate

For giving entrance to the fair,
When she was no essential there.
To sink this haughty tyrant's pride,
He order'd Fancy to preside.

Hence, when debates on beauty rise,
And each bright fair disputes the prize,

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To Fancy's court we straight apply,
And wait the sentence of her eye;
In Beauty's realms she holds the seals,
And her awards preclude appeals.

VIII.

LIFE.

LET not the young my precepts shun;
Who slight good counsels are undone.
Your poet sung of Love's delights,
Of halcyon days and joyous nights;
To the gay fancy lovely themes ;
And fain I'd hope they're more than dreams.
But, if you please, before we part,

I'd speak a language to your heart.
We'll talk of Life, though much, I fear,
The' ungrateful tale will wound your ear.
You raise your sanguine thoughts too high,
And hardly know the reason why :

But say
Life's tree bears golden fruit,
Some canker shall corrode the root;
Some unexpected storm shall rise;
Or scorching suns, or chilling skies;
And (if experienced truths avail)
All your autumnal hopes shall fail.

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But, poet, whence such wide extremes? Well may you style your labours dreams. A son of sorrow thou, I ween,

Whose visions are the brats of Spleen.

Is bliss a vague unmeaning name— Speak then the passions' use or aim; Why rage desires without control, And rouse such whirlwinds in the soul; Why Hope erects her towering crest, And laughs and riots in the breast? Think not, my weaker brain turns round, Think not, I tread on fairy ground: Think not, your pulse alone beats true— Mine makes as healthful music too. Our joys, when life's soft spring we trace, Put forth their early buds apace. See the bloom loads the tender shoot, The bloom conceals the future fruit. Yes, manhood's warm meridian sun Shall ripen what in spring begun. Thus infant roses, ere they blow, In germinating clusters grow; And only wait the summer's ray, To burst and blossom to the day.' What said the gay unthinking boy?— Methought Hilario talk'd of joy! Tell, if thou canst, whence joys arise, Or what those mighty joys you prize. You'll find (and trust superior years) The vale of life a vale of tears. Could Wisdom teach where joys abound, Or riches purchase them, when found, Would sceptred Solomon complain That all was fleeting, false, and vain? Yet sceptred Solomon could say, Returning clouds obscured his day. Those maxims, which the preacher drew, The royal sage experienced true.

He knew the various ills that wait
Our infant and meridian state;

That toys our earliest thoughts engage,
And different toys maturer age;
That grief at every stage appears,
But different griefs at different years;
That vanity is seen, in part,
Inscribed on every human heart:
In the child's breast the spark began,
Grows with his growth, and glares in man.
But when in life we journey late,

If follies die, do griefs abate?

Ah! what is life at fourscore years ?—

[tears!

One dark rough road of sighs, groans, pains, and

Perhaps you'll think I act the same
As a sly sharper plays his game:
You triumph every deal that's pass'd,
He's sure to triumph at the last;
Who often wins some thousands more
Than twice the sum you won before.
But I'm a loser with the rest,
For Life is all a deal at best;
Where not the prize of wealth or fame
Repays the trouble of the game
(A truth no winner e'er denied,
An hour before that winner died).
Not that with me these prizes shine,
For neither fame nor wealth are mine.
My cards!-a weak plebeian band,
With scarce an honour in my hand.
And, since my trumps are very few,
What have I more to boast than you!
Nor am I gainer by your fall!
That harlot Fortune bubbles all,

"Tis truth (receive it ill or well), Tis melancholy truth I tell.

Why should the preacher take your pence,
And smother truth to flatter sense?

I'm sure physicians have no merit,
Who kill through lenity of spirit.

That Life's a game, divines confess,
This says at cards, and that at chess:
But if our views be centred here,
'Tis all a losing game, I fear.

Sailors, you know, when wars obtain,
And hostile vessels crowd the main,
If they discover from afar

A bark as distant as a star,

Hold the perspective to their eyes,
To learn its colours, strength, and size;
And when this secret once they know,
Make ready to receive the foe.
Let you and I from sailors learn
Important truths of like concern.

I closed the day, as custom led,
With reading, till the time of bed;
Where Fancy, at the midnight hour,
Again display'd her magic power
(For know, that Fancy, like a sprite,
Prefers the silent scenes of night).
She lodged me in a neighbouring wood,
No matter where the thicket stood;
The Genius of the place was nigh,
And held two pictures to my eye.
The curious painter had portray'd
Life in each just and genuine shade.
They who have only known its dawn
May think these lines too deeply drawn,

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