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Her eye-bows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray
To watch yon am'rous couple in their play,
With bony and unkerchief'd neck defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies ,
And sails with lappet-head and mincing airs
Duly at chink of bell to morning pray'rs.
To thrift and parsimony much inclin'd,
She yet allows herself that boy behind » «
The shiv'ring urchin, bending as he goes,
With slipshod heels, and dewdrop at his nosey ^
His predecessor's coat advanc'd to wear,
Which future pages yet are doom'd to share,
Carries her Bible tuck'd beneath his arm,
And hides his hands to keep his fingers warm.

She, half an angel in her own account,
Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount,
Though not a grace appears on strictest search,
But that she fasts, and item, goes to church.
Conscious of age she recollects her youth,
And tells, not always with an eye to truth,
Whospann'd her waist, and who, where'er he came,
Scrawl'd upon glass miss Bridget's lovely name;
Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay,
And drank the little bumper ev'ry day.

Of temper as envenom'd as an asp,

Censorious, and her ev'ry word a wasp f

In faithful mem'ry she records the crimes

Or real, or fictitious, of the times;

Laughs at the reputations she has torn,

And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn.

Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride, Of malice fed while flesh is mortified: Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray'rs, Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs; Your portion is with them.—Nay, never frown, But, if you please, some fathoms lower down.

Artist attend—your brushes and your paintProduce them—take a chair—now draw a saint. Oh sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears Channel her cheeks—A Niobe appears! Is this a saint? Throw tints and all away— True Piety is cheerful as the day, Will weep indeed and heave a pitying groan For others' woes, but smiles upon her own.

What purpose has the King of saints in view? Why falls the Gospel like a gracious dew? To call up plenty from the teeming eart , Or curse the desert with a tenfold dearth?

Is it that Adam's offspring may be sav'd
From servile fear, or be the more enslav'd?
To loose the links, that gall'd mankind before,
Or bind them faster on, and add still more]
The freebom Christian has no chains to prove,
Or, if a chain, the golden one of love:
No fear attends to quench his glowing fires,
What fear he feels his gratitude inspires.
Shall he, for such deliv'rance freely wrought,
Recompense ill? He trembles at the thought.
His master's int'rest and his own combin'd
Prompt ev'ry movement of his heart and mind:
Thought, word and deed, his liberty evince,
His freedom is the freedom of a prince.

Man's obligations infinite, of course
His life should prove that he perceives their force;
His utmost he can render is but small—
The principle and motive all in all.
You have two servants—Tom, an arch, sly rogue,
From top to toe the Geta now in vogue,
Genteel in figure, easy in address,
Moves without noise, and swift as an express,
Reports a message with a pleasing grace,
Expert in all the duties of his place;

Say, on what hinge does his obedience move
Has he a world of gratitude and love?
No, not a spark—'tis all mere sharper's play;
He likes your house, your housemaid, and your

pay; Reduce his wages, or get rid of her, Tom quits you, with—Your most obedient, Sir.

The dinner serv'd, Charles takes his usual stand. Watches your eye, anticipates command; Sighs if perhaps your appetite should fail; And if he but suspects a frown, turns pale; Consults all day your int'rest and your ease, Richly rewarded if he can but please; And, proud to make his firm attachment known, To save your life would nobly risk his own.

Now which stands highest in your serious thought? Charles, without doubt, say you—and so he ought; One act, that from a thankful heart proceeds, Excels ten thousand mercenary deeds.

Thus Heav'n approves as honest and sincere The work of gen'rous love and filial fear; But with averted eyes th' omniscient Judge Scorns the base hireling, and the slavish drudge.

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Where dwell these matchless saints?—old Curio"

cries. Ev'n at your side, Sir, and before your eyes, The favour'd few—th' enthusiasts you despise. And pleas'd at heart because on holy ground Sometimes a canting hypocrite is found, Reproach a people with his single fall, And cast his filthy raiment at them all. Attend!—an apt similitude shall show Whence springs the conduct that offends you so. See where it smokes along the sounding plain, Blown all aslant, a driving dashing rain. Peal upon peal redoubling all around, Shakes it again and faster to the ground; Now flashing wide, now glancing as in play, Swift beyond thought the lightnings dart away. Ere yet it came the trav'ller urg'd his steed. And hurried, but with unsuccessful speed; Now drench'd throughout, and hopeless of his case, He drops the rein, and leaves him to his pace. Suppose, unlook'd for in a scene so rude, Long hid by interposing hill or wood, Some mansion, neat and elegantly dress'd, By some kind hospitable heart possess'd, Offer him warmth, security, and rest;

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