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Stand high in honour, wealth, and wit:
All others who inferior sit
Conceive themselves in conscience bound
To join and drag you to the ground.
Your altitude offends the eyes
Of those who want the power to rise.
The world, a willing stander-by,
Inclines to aid a specious lye:
“ Alas! they would not do you wrong,
But all appearances are strong.”
Yet, whence proceeds this weight we lay
On what detracting people say ?
For let mankind discharge their tongues
In venom, till they burst their lungs,
Their utmost malice cannot make
Your head, or tooth, or finger ach :
Nor spoil your shape, distort your face,
Or put one feature out of place :
Nor will you find your fortune sink,
By what they speak, or what they think!
Nor can ten hundred thousand lies


less virtuous, learn'd, or wise.


The most effectual way to baulk Their malice isto let them talk.

Doctor Swift.


Wuen things are done and past recalling,

'Tis folly then to fret or cry.
Prop up a rotten house that's falling,

But when it's down e'en let it lie.
O patience ! patience! thou’rt a jewel,
And, like all jewels, hard to find.
'Mongst all the various men you see,

Examine ev'ry mother's son;
You'll find they all in this agree,

To make ten troubles out of one;
When passions rage, they heap on fuel,

And give their reason to the wind.

Hark! don't you hear the gen'ral cry?

“ Whose troubles excr equallid inine!” How readily each stander-by

Replies, with captious echo, mine! Sure from our clime this discord springs ; Heav'ns choicest blessings we abuse. For ev'ry Englishnan alive,

Whether duke, lord, esquire, or gent, Claims as his just prerogative,

Ease, liberty, and discontent. A Frenchman often starves and sings,

With clieerfulness, and wooden shoes.

A peasant, of the true French breed,

Was driving in a narrow road
A cart, with but one sorry steed,

And fill'd with onions : sav'ry load!
Careless, he trudg’d along before,
Singing a Gascon roundelay,
Hard by there ran a whimp'ring brook,

The road hung shelving tow'rds the brim;
The spiteful wind the advantage took ;

The wheel flies up; the onions swim ; The peasant saw his fav’rite store,

At one rude blast, all puff’d away.

How would an English clown have sworn,

To hear them plump, and see them roll?
Have curs’d the day that he was born,

And, for an onion, dann'd his soul?
Our Frenchinan acted quite as well,
He stopt (and hardly stopt) his song ;
First rais'd the bidet from his swoon;

Then stood, a little while, to view
His onions, bobbing up and down ;

At last, he shrugging cry’d, “ Parbleu !
* Il ne manq ici, que du sol,
Pour faire du potage excellent.”

London Magazine.

There wants nothing but salt to make excellent soup."



ONCE friends 1 had, but ah ! too soon

Death robb’d me of my parents dear, Left me to mourn my wretched doom,

And wander friendless in despair.
Forlorn o'er bills and dales I rov'd,

Depriv'd of ev'ry earthly joy ;
At length, a swain, with pity mov'd,

Made me a humble shepherd boy.

Soon as I view the dawn of day

To flow'ry plains my ffocks I lead, And whilst for food my lambkins stray,

On some lone bank I tune my reed : Did those who bathe in seeming bliss

Once taste the sweets that I enjoy, They'd wish for humble happiness,

And envy me, the shepherd's boy,

When down the western sky the sun
:Descends to gladden eastern climes,
'Tis then my daily toil is done,

And I to rest repair betimes:
In rustic garb, 'tis true, I'm clad,

Yet nothing does my peace annoy,
And tho' my fortuue is but sad, 4.13
Still heay’n may bless the shepherd's boy.


A Song Book.



The world still judges by the mien,

For habit holds the yellow glass, And through that jaundic'd medium seen,

Shall wisdom's self for folly pass. 'Tis not because yon vapid smart

Strays, carelessly, from reason's rules, That he hates reason, has no heart,

'Tis that he's one of fashion's fools.

The toper o'er the bowl, his joke

Who vents against his dearest friends, Next morn would fain the bowl were broke,

And he'd been dumb, to make amends : For honour well his heart can touch,

He well knows golden friendship's rules, His fault is that he drinks too much,

And thus he's one of fashion's fools.

The bouncer swears that brown is blue,

And moulds at will dame nature's law, And talks of joys he never knew,

And fancies charms he never saw : "Tis not that he would fain renounce

Fair Truth, and all her sacred rules, But 'tis that it's genteel to bounce,

And thus he's one of fashion's fools.

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