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Lying's a certain mark of cowardice:
And, when the tongue forgets its honesty,
The heart and hand may drop their functions too
And nothing worthy be resolved or done.


What a paradox Is man! My father here, who boasts his honour, And e'en but now was warm in praise of justice, Can steel his heart against thế widow's tears, And infant's wants : the widow and the infant Of Biron-of his son, his favourite son. 'Tis ever this ; weak minds, who court opinion, And dead to virtuous feeling, hide their wants In pompous affection.



1. THE IDEAL WOMAN. I'd have her reason all her passions sway: Easy in company; in private, gay ; Coy to a fop, to the deserving free; Still constant to herself and just to me. A soul she should have for great actions fit ; Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit: Courage to look bold danger in the face, No fear, but only to be proud or base; Quick to advise, by an emergence pressed, To give good counsel, or to take the best. I'd have the expression of her thoughts be such, She might not seem reserved, nor talk too much, That shows a want of judgment and of sense ; More than enough is but impertinence. Her conduct regular, her mirth refined; Civil to strangers, to her neighbours kind : Averse to vanity, revenge, and pride ; In all the methods of deceit untried : So faithful to her friend, and good to all, No censure might upon her actions fall : Then would e'en envy be compelled to say, She goes

the least of womankind astray.

Weep then, once fruitful vales, and spring with yew !
Ye thirsty, barren mountains, wejp with dew!
Let every flower on this extended plain
Not drop, but shrink into its womb again,
Ne'er to receive anew its yearly birth! -
Let every thing that’s grateful leave the earth!
Let mournful cypress, with each noxious weed,
A baleful venom in their place succeed!
Ye purling, querulous brooks, o'ercharged with grief;
Haste swiftly to the sea for more relief ;
Then, tidings back, each to his sacred head,
Tell your astonished springs Celestia's dead!

What tortures can there be in hell
Compar'd to those fond lovers feel,
When doting on some fair one's charms,
They think she yields them to their rival's arms ?
As lions, tho' they once were tame,
Yet if sharp wounds their rage inflame,
Lift up their stormy voices, roar,
And tear the keepers they obeyed before.
So fares the lover when his breast
By jealous frenzy is possessed :
Forswears the nymph for whom he burns,
Yet straight to her, whom he forswears, returns.
But when the fair resolves his doubt,
The love comes in, the fear goes out;
The cloud of jealousy's dispell'd,
And the bright sun of innocence reveal'd;
With what strange raptures is he blest!
Raptures, too great to be express'd!
Tho' hard the torment's to endure,
Who would not have the sickness for the cure !


In ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,


And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother-hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent:
Where, in the strollers' canting strain.
They begg’d from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village past,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon ;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried ;
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink.
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful !) they foun)
'Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touched a drop,
The good old couple were amazed,
And often on each other gazed ;
For both were frighten’d to the heart,
And just began to cry, “ What art ?
Then softly turn’d aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling, and their errand.

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“ Good folks you need not be afraid,
We are but saints,” the hermits said ;
“No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd;
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes.”

They scarce had spoke, when fair, and soft
The roof began to mount aloft :
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.

The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below ;
In vain; for a superior force,
Applied at bottom, stops its course :
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower:
The flier, though it had leaden feet,
Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see't :
But, slacken’d by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each owner's side :
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone,
But up against the steeple rear'd
Became a clock, and still adhered ;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon declares,



Warning the cook maid not to burn
The roast meat which it cannot turn.

The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall:
There stuck aloft in public view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.

The porringers, that in a row Hung high, and made a glittering show, To a less noble substance changed, Were now but leathern buckets ranged.

The ballads pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The little Children in the Wood,
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improved in picture, size, and letter,
And, high in order placed, describe
A heraldry of every tribe.

A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.

The cottage by such feats as these
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desired their host
To ask for what he fancied most.
Philemon, having paused awhile,
Return'd them thanks in homely style :
Then said, “ My house is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine ;
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson, if you please."

He spoke and presently he feels His grazier's coat fall down his heels : He sees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding sleeve; His waistcoat to a cassock

grew, And both assumed a sable hue :

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