Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual close

And cure of ev'ry ill !
More cruelty could none express;
And I, if you had shown me less,

Had been your pris’ner still.


The pineapples, in triple row,
Were basking hot, and all in blow;
A bee of most discerning taste
Perceiv'd the fragrance as he pass’d;
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And search'd for crannies in the frame,
Urg'd his attempt on ev'ry side,
To ev'ry pane his trunk applied;
But still in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light:

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Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimm'd his flight another way.

Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind.
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles, as she passes,
The nymph between two chariot glasses,
She is the pineapple, and he
The silly unsuccessful bee,
The maid, who views with pensive air
The showglass fraught with glitt'ring ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets;
Like thine, her appetite is keen,
But ah, the cruel glass between!

Our dear delights are often such, Expos’d to view, but not to touch; The sight our foolish heart inflames, We long for pineapples in frames :

With hopeless wish one looks and lingers; One breaks the glass, and cuts his fingers; But they whom truth and wisdom lead, Can gather honey from a weed. .

HORACE. Book the 2d. Ode the 10th.

Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse Fortune's pow'r;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep

Along the treacherous shore

He, that holds fast the golden mean
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues, that haunt the rich man's door,

Imbittering all his state.

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The tallest pines feel most the pow'r
Of wintry blasts; the loftiest tow'r

Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts, that spare the mountain's side,
His cloudcapt eminence divide,

And spread the ruin round.

The well inform’d philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

And hopes in spite of pain;
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,

And Nature laughs again.

What if thine Heav'n be overcast,

The dark appearance will not last;

Expect a brighter sky.
The God that strings the silver bow,
Awakes sometimes the muses too,

And lays his arrows by.



If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen;
But 0! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,

Take half thy canvass in.



And is this all? Can reason do no more
Than bid me shun the deep, and dread the shore?
Sweet moralist! afloat on life's rough sea,
The Christian has an art unknown to thee.
He holds no parley with unmanly fears ;
Where Duty bids he confidently steers,
Faces a thousand dangers at her call,
And, trusting in his God, surmounts them all.

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