Yet they will urge, "This private life
"Can never make you blest,

"And twenty doors are ftill at ftrife

"T'engage you for a guest.”

Friend, fhould the towers of Windfor or Whitehall
Spread open their inviting gates
To make my entertainment gay;
I would obey the royal call,

But fhort fhould be my stay,

Since a diviner service waits

T'employ my hours at home, and better fill the day.

When I within myself retreat,

I fhut my doors against the great;
My bufy eye-balls inward roll,
And there with large furvey I fee

All the wide theatre of Me,

And view the various fcenes of my retiring foul;
There I walk o'er the mazes I have trod,
While hope and fear are in a doubtful ftrife,
Whether this Opera of life

Be acted well to gain the Plaudit of my God.

There's a day haftening, ('tis an awful day !)
When the great fovereign fhall at large review
All that we fpeak, and all we do,

The feveral parts we act on this wide stage of clay :

Thefe he approves, and those he blames, And crowns perhaps a porter, and a prince he damns.

O if the judge from his tremendous feat

Shall not condemn what I have done,

I fhall be happy though unknown,
Nor need the gazing rabble, nor the fhouting ftreet.

I hate the Glory, friend, that fprings
From vulgar breath, and empty found;
Fame mounts her upward with a flattering gale
Upon her airy wings,

Till Envy fhoots, and Fame receives the wound:
Then her flagging pinions fail,

Down glory falls, and ftrikes the ground,
And breaks her batter'd limbs.

Rather let me be quite conceal'd from Fame;
How happy I should lie

In fweet obfcurity,

Nor the loud world pronounce my little name !
Here I could live and die alone;

Or if fociety be due

To keep our taste of pleasure new,
Gunston, I'd live and die with you,
For both, our fouls are one.

Here we could fit and pafs the hour,
And pity kingdoms, and their kings,
And finile at all their fhining things,
Their toys of state, and images of power;.
Virtue fhould dwell within our feat,
Virtue alone could make it sweet,

Nor is herfelf fecure, but in a close retreat.

While fhe withdraws from public praise,
Envy perhaps would ceafe to rail,

Envy itself may innocently gaze
At beauty in a vail :

But if fhe once advance to light,

Her charms are loft in Envy's fight,
And Virtue ftands the mark of univerfal fpight.

To JOHN HARTOPP, Efq; afterwards Sir JOHN HAR TOPP, Bart.

THE DISDAIN.

HARTOPP, I love the foul that dares

Tread the temptations of his years

Beneath his youthful feet:

Fleetwood and all thy heavenly line

Look through the stars, and smile divine

Upon an heir so great.

Young Hartopp knows this noble theme,
That the wild fcenes of bufy life,
The noife, th' amusements, and the strife,
Are but the vifions of the night,
Gay phantoms of delufive light,
Or a vexatious dream.

Flefh is the vileft and the least
Ingredient of our frame :

We're born to live above the beast,
Or quit the manly name.

1700.

Pleasures

Pleasures of fenfe we leave for boys;
Be fhining duft the mifer's food;
Let fancy feed on fame and noise,
Souls must pursue diviner joys,
And feize th' immortal good.

Το

MITIO, my

FRIEND.

F

An EPISTLE.

ORGIVE me, Mitio, that there fhould be any mortfying lines in the following poems infcribed to you, fo foon after your entrance into that state which was defigned for the compleateft happiness on earth: But you will quickly difcover, that the Mufe in the first poem only reprefents the fhades and dark colours that melancholy throws upon love, and the focial life. In the fecond, perhaps the indulges her own bright ideas a little. Yet if the accounts are but well balanced at laft, and things fet in a due light, I hope there is no ground for cenfure. Here you will find an attempt made to talk of one of the most important concerns of human nature in verfe, and that with a folemnity becoming the argument. I have banished grimace and ridicule, that perfons of the most serious character may read without offence. What was written feveral years ago to yourself is now permitted to entertain the world; but you may affume it to yourself as a private entertainment ftill, while you lie concealed behind a feigned

name.

THE

L

THE

MOURNING-PIECE.

IFE's a long tragedy: This globe the stage,
Well fix'd and well adorn'd with strong machines,
Gay fields, and skies, and feas: The actors many :
The plot immense: A flight of dæmons fit

On every failing cloud with fatal purpofe;
And fhoots acrofs the fcenes ten thousand arrows
Perpetual and unfeen, headed with pain,

With forrow, infamy, difeafe, and death.

The pointed plagues fly filent through the air,
Nor twangs the bow, yet fure and deep the wound.
Dianthe acts her little part alone,

Nor wishes an affociate. Lo fhe glides
Single through all the storm, and more fecure;
Lefs are her dangers, and her breast receives
The feweft darts. "But, O my lov'd Marilla,
"My fifter, once my friend, (Dianthe cries)
"How much art thou expos'd! Thy growing foul
"Doubled in wedlock, multiply'd in children,
"Stands but the broader mark for all the mischiefs
"That rove promifcuous o'er the mortal stage:
"Children, thofe dear young limbs, thofe tendereft pieces
"Of your own flesh, thofe little other felves,
"How they dilate the heart to wide dimenfions,
"And foften every fibre to improve

"The mother's fad capacity of pain!

I mourn Fidelio too; though heaven has chofe

A fa