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III.

Thus when our follies or our faults

Call for the pity of thy thoughts
Thy pen fhall make us wife,
The fallies of whose youthful wit
Could pierce the British fogs with light,
Place our true int'reft * in our sight,
And open half our eyes.

To Mr. William Nokes.

Friendship, 1702.

FRIENDSHIP, thou charmer of the mind,

Thou sweet deluding ill!

The brighteft minute mortals find

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And sharpeft hours we feel.

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2. Fate has divided all our fhares

Of pleasure and of pain;

In love the comforts and the cares

Are mix'd and join'd again.

3. But whilst in floods our forrow rolls,

And drops of joy are few,

This dear delight of mingling fouls

Serves but to fwell our wo.

4. Oh! why should blifs depart in hafte

And friendship stay to moan?

Why the fond paffion cling fo faft

When ev'ry joy is gone?

* The intereft of England, written by J. S. Efq.

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5. Yet never let our hearts divide

Nor death diffolve the chain,

For Love and Joy were once ally'd,

And must be join'd again.

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To Nathanael Gould, Efq. now Sir Nathanael Gould,1704.

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My Mufe takes measure of a king:
If wealth, or height, or bulk, will do,
She calls each mountain of Peru
A more majestick thing.

Frown on me, friend, if e'er I boast
O'er fellow-minds enflav'd in clay,
Or fwell when I fhall have engroft

A larger heap of shining duft,

And wear a bigger load of earth than they.
Let the vain world falute me loud,

My thoughts look inward, and forget
The founding names of high and great,
'The flatt'ries of the crowd.

II.

When Gould commands his fhips to run
And fearch the traffick of the sea,
His fleet o'ertakes the falling day

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And bears the western mines away,

Or richer fpices from the rifing fun,

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While the glad tenants of the shore
Shout and pronounce him fenator *,
Yet ftill the man's the fame;

For well the happy merchant knows
The foul with treasure never grows
Nor fwells with airy fame.

III.

But trust me, Gould, 't is lawful pride
To rife above the mean control
Of flesh and sense, to which we're ty'd;
This is ambition that becomes a foul.
We fteer our courfe up thro' the skies,
Farewell this barren land;

We ken the heav'nly shore with longing eyes,
There the dear wealth of fpirits lies

And beck'ning angels stand.

To Dr. Thomas Gibfon.

The life of fouls, 1704.

I.

SWIFT as the fun revolves the day

We haften to the dead,

Slaves to the wind we puff away

And to the ground we tread.

* Member of Parliament for a port in Suffex.

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'Tis air, that lends us life when first

The vital bellows heave;

Our flesh we borrow of the duft;

And when a mother's care has nurs'd

The babe to manly fize we muft

With ufury pay the grave.

II.

Rich julaps drawn from precious ore
Still tend the dying flame,

And plants and roots of barb'rous name

Torn from the Indian fhore.

Thus we fupport our tott'ring flesh,

Our cheeks refume the rose afresh,

When bark and steel play well their game'

To fave our finking breath,

And Gibson with his awful pow'r

Refcues the poor precarious hour

From the demands of Death.

III.

But art and nature, pow'rs and charms,
And drugs, and recipes, and forms,

Yield us at laft to greedy worms

A defpicable prey.

I'd have a life to call my own,

That shall depend on Heav'n alone,

Nor air, nor earth, nor fea,

Mix their bafe effences with mine,

Nor claim dominion fo divine

To give me leave to be.

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IV.

Sure there's a mind within that reigns
O'er the dull current of my veins;

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And breath diffolve amongst the winds;
Gibfon! the things that fear a grave,

That I can lofe or you can fave,

Are not akin to minds.

V.

We claim acquaintance with the skies,
Upward our fpirits hourly rife,

And there our thoughts employ;

When Heav'n fhall fign our grand release,

We are no ftrangers to the place,

The bus'nefs or the joy.

Falfe greatness.

I.

MYLO, forbear to call him bleft
That only boafts a large eftate;
Should all the treafures of the weft
Meet and confpire to make him great,
I know thy better thoughts, I know
Thy reason, cann't defcend fo low.

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