To Contemplation's fober

Such is the race of man :

eye

And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.

Alike the bufy and the gay

But flutter thro' life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colours dreft :

Brush'd by the hand of rough Mifchance,

Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance
They leave in duft to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,

The sportive kind reply;

Poor Moralift! and what art thou?

A folitary fly!

* While infects from the threshold preach, &c.

M. GREEN, in the Grotte. Dodfley's Mifcellanies, Vol. 5. p. 161.

Thy

Thy joys no glittʼring female meets,
No hive haft thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hafty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy fun is fet, thy fpring is gone—
We frolic while 'tis May.

O DE

ON THE DEATH OF A

FAVOURITE CAT.

Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes.

D4