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'If men the higher pow'r arraign, 'Shall we adopt the plaintive strain ?

Nature, profuse to us and ours,

'Hath kindly built these stately tow'rs;

'Where, when the skies in night are dress'd, 'Secure from ev'ry ill we rest.

Survey our curious structure well

'How firm, and yet how light our shell! 'Our refuge, when cold storms invade, And in the dog-days' heat our shade.

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Thus, when we see a fleeter race, 'We'll not lament our languid pace. 'Do dangers rise, or foes withstand ? 'Are not our castles close at hand? 'For let a Snail at distance roam, 'The happy Snail is still at home. 'Survey our garden's blest retreats'Oh! what a paradise of sweets! 'With what variety it's stor❜d! 'Unnumber'd dainties spread our board. The plums assume their glossy blue,

And cheeks of nectarines glow for you; 'Peaches their lovely blush betray, 'And apricots their gold display;

'While for your beverage, when you dine, 'There streams the nectar of the vine.

'Be not my dying words forgot;

'Depart, contented with your lot;

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Repress complaints when they begin,

'Ingratitude's a crying sin.

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And hold it for a truth that we Are quite as blest as Snails should be.' The Gardener hears with great surprise This sage discourse, and thus he cries'Oh! what a thankless wretch am I, 'Who pass ten thousand favours by! I blame, whene'er the linnet sings,

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My want of song, or want of wings. The piercing hawk, with tow'ring flight, Reminds me of deficient sight. 'And, when the generous steed I view, Is not his strength my envy too? I thus at birds and beasts repine, 'And wish their various talents mine.

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Fool! as I am, who cannot see

• Reason is more than all to me.

My landlord boasts a large estate,

Rides in his coach, and eats in plate.

• What! shall these lures bewitch my eye?

'Shall they extort the murmuring sigh?

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Say he enjoys superior wealth

'Is not my better portion, health? Before the sun has gilt the skies, 'Returning labour bids me rise;

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• Obedient to the hunter's horn,
'He quits his couch at early morn.
'By want compell'd, I dig the soil,
'His is a voluntary toil.

For truth it is, since Adam's fall,
'His sons must labour, one and all.

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• No man's exempted by his purse,

Kings are included in the curse.

'Would monarchs relish what they eat? ''Tis toil that makes the manchet sweet; 'Nature enacts, before they're fed,

'That prince and peasant earn their bread. 'Hence wisdom and experience shew, 'That joys in equal currents flow; 'That happiness is still the same, 'Howe'er ingredients change their name. Nor doth this theme our search defy, • "Tis level to the human eye. • Distinctions, introduc'd by men, 'Bewilder, and obscure our ken. 'I'll store these lessons in my heart, And cheerful act my proper part. 'If sorrows rise, as sorrows will, 'I'll stand resign'd to every ill; 'Convinc'd, that wisely every pack Is suited to the bearer's back.'

FABLE XLI.

THE FARMER AND THE HORSE.

By Dr. Cotton,

"Tis a vain world, and all things shew it,
'I thought so once, but now I know it *.'
Ah! Gay! is thy poetic page
The child of disappointed age?
Talk not of threescore years and ten,
For what avails our knowledge then?
But, grant, that this experienc'd truth
Were ascertain❜'d in early youth;
Reader, what benefit would flow?
Indeed, I'm at a loss to know.

The world alarms the human breast,
Because in savage colours dress'd.
"Tis treated with invective style,
And stands impeach'd of fraud and guile.
All in this heavy charge agree-
But who's in fault-the world or me?
The question's serious, short, and clear,
The answer claims our patient ear.
Yet, if this office you decline-
With all my heart-the task be mine.
I'm certain, if I do my best,

Your candour will excuse the rest.

* Gay's Epitaph on himself.

A Farmer, with a pensive brow,
One morn accompanied his plough.
The larks their cheerful matins sung,
The woods with answering music rung;
The sun display'd his golden ray,
And Nature hail'd the rising day.
But still the peasant all the while
Refus'd to join the general smile.
He, like his fathers long before,
Resembled much the Jews of yore;
Whose murmurs, impious, weak and vain,
Nor quails, nor manna could restrain.
Did accidental death prevail?
How prone to tell his piteous tale!
Pregnant with joys did plenty rise?
How prone to blame indulgent skies!
Thus ever ready to complain,
For plenty sinks the price of grain.

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At length he spake: Thou Power divine!

'Was ever lot so hard as mine?

'From infant life an arrant slave,

'Close to the confines of the grave. • Have not I follow'd my employ

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Near threescore winters, man and boy?
'But, since I call'd this farm my own,
'What scenes of sorrow have I known!
'Alas! if all the truth were told,

'Hath not the rot impair'd my fold?
'Hath not the measles seiz'd my swine?

'Hath not the murrain slain my kine?

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