Then here I'll sit, and sigh my hot love's folly,
And learn t' affect an holy melancholy ;
And if Contentment be a stranger then,
Ill ne'er look for it but in Heaven again.

Sir H. Wotton.

ON THE DEATH OF MISS LENNOX.

So blooms the rose, when vernal gales
Their soft enliv'ning influence shed:
So when a noxious blast prevails,
It droops and all its beauties fade.

Ah! short-liv'd flower, ah! hapless fair!
Alike your charms, alike their date!
Flow, flow, my tears, on Harriet's bier,
Sweet victim of an early fate.

Say, shall th' impassion'd bosom grieve
At angry heav'ns too partial doom,
That blasted all our hopes, and gave
Thy spring of beauty to the tomb?

Or shall we, with faith's steady eye,
View thee thy kindred angels join;
An inmate of thy native sky,

Whilst heav'n's eternal year is thine?
Addison's Anecdotes.

TO THE NOBILITY, GENTRY, &c.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF WANT AND MISERY.

WHILE thro' the waste of frost and snow,
Shiv'ring and starving now we go,

O cast a tender eye!

For this good end your wealth was giv'n;
You are the delegates of Heav'n,
To stop the heart-felt sigh!

While cloth'd in fur you stand elate,
You cannot feel our wretched state,
You cannot form our woe;
Yet must each sympathetic breast,
When once it hears how we're distress'd,
And how forlorn we go.

When cold and hunger both prevail,
And both with equal force assail

To wound a mortal frame,
Bring to each mind a horrid view,
A scene as horrid as 'tis true,

And almost wants a name.

The parent hears his offspring cry,
The children watch the parent's eye,
And catch the falling tear;
They echo back each dismal groan,
'Till soon one universal moan

And sorrow rends the air.

Tho' worthless objects may be found,
Who justly feel the piercing wound,
Yet be their faults their own;

Leave them to Heav'n, while you dispense
Those blessings you've receiv'd from thence,
And gain th' immortal crown.

How many pray'rs you'll then obtain !
How many blessings not in vain,

Unworthily bestow'd!

From morn to night, from night to day,

Poor Want and Misery will pray,

To bless the great and good.

Addison's Anecdotes.

IMPROMPTU

TO MR. HENRY SNART, WRITING-MASTER,
NEWARK.

THREE beauties once so dimm'd young Paris' eyes,

He hardly knew which best deserv'd the prize;
But had the apple been a golden pen,

And you had wrote against a world of men,
He'd giv'n the honour where 'twas justly due,
And cry'd, oh! SNART, this pen belongs to you.
George Downing, Comedian.

TRUE RICHES.

I AM not concern'd to know

What to-morrow's fate will do:

'Tis enough that I can say
I've possess'd myself to-day:
Then if haply midnight death
Seize my flesh and stop my breath,

Yet to-morrow I shall be

Heir to the best part of me.

Glitt'ring stones and golden things, Wealth and honours that have wings, Ever flutt'ring to be gone, I could never call my own: Riches that the world bestows, She can take, and I can lose; But the treasures that are mine, Lie afar beyond her line: When I view my spacious soul, And survey myself a whole, And enjoy myself alone, I'm a kingdom of my own.

I've a mighty part within That the world hath never seen, Rich as Eden's happy ground,

And with choicest plenty crown'd.

Here, on all the shining boughs,
Knowledge fair and useful grows;
On the same young flow'ry tree,
All the seasons you may see;
Notions in the bloom of light,
Just disclosing to the sight:
Here are thoughts of larger growth,
Rip'ning into solid truth:

Fruits refin'd of noble taste;
Seraphs feed on such repast.
Here, in green and shady grove,
Streams of pleasure mix with love:
There, beneath the smiling skies,
Hills of contemplation rise :

Now, upon some shining top,
Angels light, and call me up;
I rejoice to raise my feet,
Both rejoice when there we meet.

There are endless beauties more Earth hath no resemblance for ; Nothing like them round the pole, Nothing can describe the soul; 'Tis a region half unknown, That has treasures of its own, More remote from public view Than the bowels of Peru; Broader 'tis and brighter far Than the golden Indies are :