« السابقةمتابعة »
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd, comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.
Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow, And keen Remorse with blood defil'd, And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.
Lo, in the vale of
queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, . That every labouring sinew straius;
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
And slow-consuming Age.
To cach his suff’rings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain,
Th’unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate? Since Sorrow never comes too late,
And Happiness too swiftly flies: Thought would destroy their paradise. No more: where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.
COUNTRY BOX, 1757.
BY ROBERT LLOYD, A.M.
Tue wealthy Cit, grown old in trade,
And, as they slowly jog together,
“What signify the loads of wealth
Sir Traffic's name so well apply'd
Draws a few hundreds from the stocks, And purchases his Country Box.
Some three or four miles out of town, (An hour's ride will bring you down) He fixes on his choice abode, Not half a furlong from the road; And so convenient does it lay, The stages pass it every day: And then so snug, so mighty pretty, To have a house so near the city! Take but your places at the Boar, You're set down at the very door.
Well then, suppose them fix'd at last, White-washing, painting, scrubbing past, Hugging themselves in ease and clover, With all the fuss of moving over; Lo, a new heap of whims are bred, And wanton in my lady's head.
«: Well, to be sure, it must be own'd, It is a charming spot of ground; So sweet a distance for a ride, And all about so countryfied ! 'Twould come to but a trifting price To make it quite a paradise. I cannot bear those nasty rails, Those ugly, broken, mouldy pails: Suppose, my dear, instead of these, We build a railing all Chinese :
Although one hates to be expos’d, 'Tis dismal to be thus inclos'd; One hardly any object seesI wish you'd fell those odious trees. Objects continual passing by Were something to amuse the eye; But to be pent within the walls-One might as well be at St. Paul's. Our house beholders would adore, Was there a level lawn before; Nothing its views to inconmode, But quite laid open to the road! While every traveller, in amaze, Should on our little mansion gaze, And, pointing to the choice retreat, Cry, “That's Sir Thrifty's country-seat."
No doubt her arguments prevail, For Madam's taste can never fail.
Blest age! when all men may procure The title of a Connoisseur; When noble and ignoble herd Are govern’d by a single word; Though, like the royal German dames, It bears a hundred christian names; As Genius, Fancy, Judgment, Goût, Whim, Caprice, Je ne sçai quoi, Virtù; Which appellations all describe Taste and the modern tasteful tribe.