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Mr. H A MILTO N.
PAUSE here, and think: a monitory rhime
Confult life's filent clock, thy bounding vein;
And many a tomb, like HAMILTON's, aloud
EPITAPH ON A HARE.
HERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Whofe foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Old Tiney, furlieft of his kind,
Who, nurfed with tender care,
And to domeftic bounds confined,
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread
And milk, and oats, and ftraw;
Thiftles, or lettuces inftead,
With fand to fcour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' ruffet peel,
And, when his juicy falads failed,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
His frifking was at evening hours,
For then he loft his fear,
But moft before approaching showers,
Or when a ftorm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus faw fteal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour' fake,
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long laft home, And waits, in fnug concealment laid, Till gentler Pufs shall come.
He, ftill more aged, feels the shocks,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,