These never knew a noble flame,
'Tis lust, scorn, or design :
While vanity plays all their game,
peace and honour mine.

Let

When the inviting Spring appears,
To Hyde-park let them go;
And, hasting thence, be full of fears
To lose Spring-garden show.

Let others, nobler, seek to gain
In knowledge happy fate;
Let others busy them in vain
To study ways of state:

But I, resolved from within,
Confirmed from without,

In privacy intend to spin
My future minutes out.

And from this hermitage of mine
I banish all wild toys,
And nothing that is not divine

Shall dare to tempt my joys.

There are below but two things good,
Friendship and honesty ;

And only those of all I would
Ask for felicity.

In this retir'd and humble seat,
Free from both war and strife,
I am not forc'd to make retreat,
But choose to spend my life.

SONG XVI.

A MORAL THOUGHT.

BY DR. HAWKESWORTH.

THROUGH groves sequester'd, dark, and still,

Low vales, and

mossy cells among, In silent paths the careless rill,

Which languid murmurs, steals along.

Awhile it plays with circling sweep,

And lingering leaves its native plain; Then pours impetuous down the steep, And mingles with the boundless main.

O let my years thus devious glide

Through silent scenes obscurely calm, Nor wealth nor strife pollute the tide, Nor honour's sanguinary palm.

When labour tires, and pleasure palls,

Still let the stream untroubled be,

As down the steep of age it falls,
And mingles with eternity.

SONG XVII.

TO IDLENESS.

BY MR. CHRISTOPHER SMART.

GODDESS of ease, leave Lethe's brink,
Obsequious to the Muse and me;
For once endure the pain to think,
Oh sweet Insensibility!

Sister of Peace and Indolence,

Bring, Muse, bring numbers soft and slow : Elaborately void of sense,

And sweetly thoughtless let them flow.

Near to some cowslip-painted mead,
There let me dose out the dull hours;
And under me let Flora spread

A sofa of the softest flowers.

Where, Philomel, your notes you

breathe

Forth from behind the neighb'ring pine; While murmurs of the stream beneath

Still flow in unison with thine.

For thee, O Idleness! the woes
Of life we patiently endure;

Thou art the source whence labour flows,
We shun thee but to make thee sure.

For who'd sustain war's toil and waste,
Or who th' hoarse thund'ring of the sea.
But to be idle at the last,

And find a pleasing end in thee?

SONG XVIII.

BY HARRY CAREY.*

FROM the court to the cottage convey me away,
For I'm weary of grandeur, and what they call gay :
Where pride without measure,

And pomp without pleasure,

Make life in a circle of hurry decay.

* He entitles this Mrs. Stuart's Retirement.'

Far remote and retir'd from the noise of the town, I'll exchange my brocade for a plain russet gown; My friends shall be few,

But well chosen and true,

And sweet recreation our evening shall crown.

With a rural repast, a rich banquet for me,
On a mossy green turf, near some shady old tree;
The river's clear brink,

Shall afford me my drink,

And Temp'rance my friendly physician shall be.

Ever calm and serene, with contentment still blest, Not too giddy with joy, or with sorrow deprest, I'll neither invoke,

Or repine at Death's stroke,

But retire from the world as I would to my rest.

PRINCES that rule, and empire sway,

How transitory is their state!

Sorrows their glories do allay,

And richest crowns have greatest weight.

The mighty monarch treason fears,

Ambitious thoughts within him rave;

His life all discontents and cares,
And he at best is but a slave.

* In the tragedy of Alcibiades.'

Vainly we think with fond delight
To ease the burden of our cares;
Each grief a second does invite,

And sorrows are each other's heirs.

For me, my honour I'll maintain,
Be gallant, generous, and brave;
And when I quietude would gain,
At least I'll find it in the grave..

SONG XX.

THE DIRGE.

BY DR. HENRY KING, BP. OF CHICHESTER.

WHAT is th' existence of man's life?

But open war, or slumber'd strife,
Where sickness to his sense presents
The combat of the elements;
And never feels a perfect peace

Till Death's cold hand signs his release.

It is a storm, where the hot blood
Outvies in rage the boiling flood;
And each loud passion of the mind
Is like a furious gust of wind,

Which beats his bark with many a wave,

Till he casts anchor in the grave.