IV.

What we call Vices are not always such;
Some Virtues scarce deserve the sacred name:
Thy wife may love, as well as pray too much,
And to another stretch her rising Flame.

V.

Chuse no Religionist; whose every Day
Is lost to Thee and Thine, to none a Friend:
Know too, when Pleasure calls the Heart astray.
The warmest Zealot, is the blackest Fiend.

VI.

Let not the Fortune first engross thy Care,
Let it a second Estimation hold:

A Smithfield-Marriage is of Pleasures bare,

And Love, without the Purse, will soon grow cold.

VII.

Marry no letter'd Damsel, whose wise head

May prove it just to graft the Horns on Thine:
Marry no Ideot, keep her from thy Bed;

What the Brains want, will often elsewhere shine.

VIII.

A Disposition good, a Judgment sound,
Will bring substantial Pleasures in a Wife:
Whilst Love and Tenderness in Thee are found,
Happy and calm will be the Married Life.

THOMAS CHATTERTON

On THOMAS PHILLIPS's DEATH.

From the Original, copied by Mr. Catcott.

To Clayfield, long renown'd the Muses' Friend,
Presuming on his Goodness this I send :
Unknown to you, Tranquillity and Fame,
In this address perhaps I am to blame.
This rudeness let necessity excuse,

And anxious Friendship for a much-lov'd Muse.
Twice have the circling hours unveil'd the East
Since Horror found me and all Pleasure ceas'd;
Since ev'ry Number tended to deplore;
Since Fame asserted, Phillips was no more.

Say, is he mansion'd in his Native Spheres,
Or is't a Vapor that exhales in Tears!
Swift as Idea rid me of my Pain,

And let my dubious Wretchedness be plain.
It is too true: the awful Lyre is strung,
His Elegy the Sister Muses sung.

O may he live, and useless be the Strain!
Fly gen'rous Clayfield, rid me of my pain.
Forgive my boldness, think the urgent Cause,
And who can bind Necessity with Laws:
I wait the Admirer of your noble Parts,
You, Friend to Genius, Sciences, and Arts.

FABLES for the COURT,

Addressed to Mr. Michael Clayfield, of Bristol.

Transcribed by Mr. Catcott, October 19, 1796, from Chatterton's M.S.

THE SHEPHERDS.

Morals, as Critics must allow,
Are almost out of Fashion now,
And if we credit Dodsley's Word,

All Applications are absurd.

What has the Author to be vain in

Who knows his Fable wants explaining,

And substitutes a second Scene

To publish what the first should mean:

VOL. I.