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Distinguish'd by his purple, and his cares,
His grief's superior, as the rank he bears.

No age, no state, unhappy mortals know,
Which is not full, and ever-charg'd with woe:
Troubles from life, as sparks from fire, arise ;
Man's born, knows cares, looks round, laments,

and dies.

Death.

Death is the road to everlasting life,
To palms, and crowns, and to eternal joys
Unmix'd with sorrow: where no care, nor strife,
Or hopes, or fears, the happiness destroys ;
But where content, and love, and perfect peace,
And bliss, abides, which never knows decrease.

Death is a friend, that sets the wretched free,
From pain and want, and all their suff'rings here:
That laughs at disappointed tyranny,
And makes the slave no more his bondage fear ;;
That heals the sick, the hungry bindly fills,
And cures mankind of all their worldly jis.

Death is a gate, that opens differently
Two folding doors, which lead contrary ways;
Thro' this the good man finds felicity,
The bad thro' that to endless ruin strays :
Herein they both the self-same rule retain,
Who enters once must ne'er return again.

The Modish Lover.

.

With down-cast eyes, and folded arms,

Young Myrtle saunter'd out one day,
Reflecting on Florinda's charms,

The fair, the blooming, and the gay ;
Deeply he sigh’d, his bosom all a flame,
And on the dust he flourished out her name.

Next morn, abroad he walk'd again,

Much alter'd since the day before :
A good night's rest had cur'd his pain,

Nor was Florinda thought of more.
But gid d'y chance the fickle youth had brought
Close by that spot where he her name had wrote,

The place recals to mind his flame,

When all in love he wander'd there: "Twas here, he cries, I left the name

Of yesterday's commanding fair. Pensive a-while he stood, then look'd to find What beauteous image had possess'd his mind.

But vain, alas! his searches prove,

The rain had fallen, the wind had blown, And sympathizing with his love,

Away was every letter flown: Nor could his faithless memory declare. Whose name he yesterday had flourish'd there,

The Expostulation.
Why should I pine, lament, and die,
For one kind glance of Flora's eye;
Or sue to her who slights my pains,
Contemns my vows, my love disdains ?
While such a beauteous throng appear,
More kind than she,--tho' none so fair.

More soft she seems than falling sncw;.
Or silver streams that gently flow,

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When those bewitching eyes I view,
They look as they could pity too;
But when to her I make my moan,
She's harder than the hardest stone.

No longer will I waste my time,
And spend in vain my youthful prime,
To court a maid, whose chiefest joy
Is how to torture and destroy :
I won't be any longer blind,
For none are charming but the kind.

But, stay :--behold the blooming fair!
Her graceful shape! her lovely air!
All my resolves are flown away,
Like ghosts at the approaching day;
And as the sun the flower revives,
My passion in her presence thrives.

'Tis vain elsewhere to seek redress,
For she, and only she, can bless :
Ev'n while I to forget her try,
For lier, and her alone, I die:
May Heav'n, that made her fair, dispose
Her breast to cure the lover's woes.

EDWARD LOVIBOND.

1775.

A country gentleman whose amusements in verse were col.

lected after his death. He was the Author of “ The Tears of Old May Day"

printed in No. 82 of the World, a poem which has been often praised.

On a very fine Lady.
Fine B- R observes no other rules

Than those the coterie prize ;
She tlsinks, whilst lords continue fools,

'Tis vulgar to be wise :

Thinks rudeness wit in noble dames,

Adultery, love polite ;
That ducal stars shoot brighter flames

Than all the host of light.

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