For what are Men who grasp at Praise fublime,
But Bubbles on the rapid Stream of Time,
That rife and fall, that fwell, and are no more,
Born and forgot, ten thousand in an Hour!

Virtue conftitutes true Happiness.

T

POPE.

O whom can Riches give Repute or Truft, Content, or Pleasure, but the Good and Juft? Judges and Senates have been bought for Gold, Efteem and Love were never to be fold.

Oh Fool! to think God hates the worthy Mind, The Lover and the Love of Human-kind.

Honour and Shame from no Condition rife;
A&t well your Part, there all the Honour lies;
Fortune in Men has fome fmall Diff'rence made,
One flaunts in Rags, one flutters in Brocade ;
Worth makes the Man, the Want of it the Fellow;
The reft is all but Leather or Prunella.

What's Fame? a fancy'd Life in others Breath;
A Thing beyond us, ev'n before our Death.
A Wit's a Feather, and a Chief's a Rod;
An Honest Man's the nobleft Work of God.

HE Love of Gaming is the worst of Ills,

fills,

it

Inveighs at Heaven, neglects the Ties of Blood, Deftroys the Power, and Will of doing Good, Kills Health, pawns Honour, plunges in Disgrace, * And turns an Angel's to a Fury's Face.

The laft Line is alter'd by the Editor, to make it comport with his Design.

Or Criminal Pleafures.

YOUNG.

LEASURES are few, and fewer we enjoy ;

Pleasure, like Quick-Silver, is bright and coy;
We strive to grasp it with our utmost Skill,
Still it eludes us, and it glitters still:

If feiz'd at last, compute your mighty Gains,
What is it but rank Poison in your Veins ?

The Florift Moraliz'd.

YOUNG.

E fmile at Florists, we despise their Joy,
And think their Hearts enamour'd of a Toy;

WE

But are those wiser whom we most admire,
Survey with Envy, and pursue with Fire?
What's he, who fighs for Wealth, or Fame, or Power?
Another Florio, doating on a Flower,

A fhort-liv'd Flower, and which has often fprung
From fordid Arts, as Florio's out of Dung.

Sacred Solitude! divine Retreat!

Choice of the Prudent! Envy of the Great! By thy pure Stream, or in thy waving Shade, We court fair Wisdom, that celeftial Maid: The genuine Offspring of her lov'd Embrace, (Strangers on Earth) are Innocence and Peace, There from the Ways of Men lay'd fafe afhore, We smile to hear the diftant Tempest roar; There bleft with Health, with Business unperplext, This Life we relish, and ensure the next.

The

The Real Beauty diftinguished.

YOUNG.

ET Angel Forms angelic Truths maintain ; Nature disjoins the Beauteous and Prophane. For what's true Beauty, but fair Virtue's Face? Virtue made vifible in outward Grace?

She then that's haunted with an impious Mind, The more fhe charms, the more fhe fhocks Mankind.

On the Same. A Song by Mr. EARL.

TELLA and Flavia ev'ry Hour
Do various Hearts furprife;

STE

In Stella's Soul lies all her Power,
And Flavia's in her Eyes.
More boundless Flavia's Conquefts are,
And Stella's more confin'd;
All can discern a Face that's fair,
But few a lovely Mind.

Stella, like Britain's Monarchs, reigns
O'er cultivated Lands;

Like Eastern Tyrants, Flavia deigns

To rule o'er barren Sands.

Then boast not, Flavia, thy fair Face,
Thy Beauty's only Store;

Thy Charms will ev'ry Day decrease,
Each Day gives Stella more.

The Fair Lady's Wish.

Fit be true, Celestial Pow'rs, That you have form'd me fair, And yet in all my vainest Hours My Mind has been my Care,

Then,

Then, in Return, I beg this Grace,
As you were ever kind;

What envious Time takes from my Face,
Beftow upon my Mind.

F

On a Bee ftifled in Honey.

ROM Flower to Flower, with eager Pains,
See the brifk, bufy Lab'rer fly;

When all that from her Toil fhe gains,

Is in her hoarded Sweets to die.
"Tis thus (would Man the Truth believe)
With Life's foft Sweets, each fav'rite Joy;
If we taste wifely, they relieve;
But, if we plunge too deep, destroy.

WHE

The MIRROUR.

HEN I revolve this evanefcent State,
How fleeting is its Form, how short its Date!

My Being and my Stay dependant still;

Not on mine own, but on another's Will;
I ask myself, as I my Image view,
Which is the real Shadow of the two.

The Unreafonableness of denying a future State.

GLYNN's Prize Poem on the Day of Judgment.

CEPTIC! whoe'er thou art, who fay'st the Soul, That Particle divine, which God's own Breath Infpir'd into the mortal Mass, shall Rest Annihilate, 'till Duration has unroll'd

Her never-ending Line; tell if thou know'ft,

H

Why

Why ev'ry Nation, ev'ry Clime, tho' all
In Laws, in Rites, in Manners difagree,
With one Confent expect another World,
Where Wickednefs fhall weep? Why Paynim Bards
Fabled Elyfian Plains; Tartarean Lakes,
Styx and Cocytus? tell, why Hali's Sons
Have feign'd a Paradife of Mirth and Love,
Banquets, and blooming Nymphs ? or rather tell,
Why on the Brink of Orellana's Stream,
Where never Science rear'd her facred Torch,
Th' untutor❜d Indian dreams of happier Worlds
Behind the cloud-topt Hill? Why in each Breast
Is plac'd a friendly Monitor, that prompts,
Informs, directs, encourages, forbids ? ́
Tell, why on unknown Evil Grief attends;
Or Joy on fecret Good? Why Conscience acts
With tenfold Force, when Sickness, Age, or Pain,
Stands tott'ring on the Precipice of Death?
Or why fuch Horror gnaws the guilty Soul
Of dying Sinners; while the good Man fleeps
Peaceful and calm, and with a Smile expires?

The grand Distinction betwixt the Virtuous and the Wicked referved for another State. GLYNN.

L

OOK round the World! with what a partial

Hand

The Scale of Bliss and Mifery is sustain❜d!
Beneath the Shade of cold Obfcurity

Pale Virtue lies; no Arm supports her Head,
No friendly Voice fpeaks Comfort to her Soul,
Nor foft-ey'd Pity drops a melting Tear;
But, in their Stead, Contempt and rude Difdain

Infult