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For our advantage shall their harvests grow,
He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain,
BORN 1703.-DIED 1764.
It is creditable to the memory of Pope to have been the encourager of this ingenious man, who rose from the situation of a footman to be a respectable bookseller. His plan of republishing "Old English Plays" is said to have been suggested to him by the literary amateur Coxeter, but the execution of it leaves us still indebted to Dodsley's enterprise.
MAN's a poor deluded bubble,
Seeing false, or seeing double;
Yet presuming on his senses,
On he goes, most wondrous wise: Doubts of truth, believes pretences; lives and dies.
Lost in error,
THE PARTING KISS.
ONE kind kiss before we part,
Yet, yet weep not so, my love,
Let me kiss that falling tear, Though my body must remove,
All my soul will still be here.
All my soul, and all my heart,
ROBERT LLOYD was the son of one of the masters of Westminster school. He studied at Cambridge, and was for some time usher at Westminster, but forsook that employment for the life of an author and the habits of a man of pleasure. His first publication that attracted any notice was the Actor, the reputation of which stimulated Churchill to his Rosciad. He contributed to several periodical works; but was unable by his literary efforts to support the dissipated life which he led with Coleman, Thornton, and other gay associates. His debts brought him to the Fleet, and those companions left him to moralize on the instability of convivial friendships. Churchill however adhered to him, and gave him pecuniary relief to prevent him from starving in prison. During his confinement he published a volume of his poems; wrote a comic opera, "The Capricious Lovers ;" and took a share in translating the Contes Moraux of Marmontel. When the death of Churchill was announced to him, he exclaimed, "Poor Charles ! I shall follow him soon," fell into despondency, and died within a few weeks. Churchill's sister, to whom he was attached, died of a broken heart for his loss.
AN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS.
IDYLL. XV. Evdos Пgasivoa, &c.
Mrs. B. Is Mistress Scot at home, my dear?
She fancy'd you would not come down,
Mrs. S. Your servant, madam. Well, I swear
Lard! my dear,
There is such scrouging and such squeeging,
And then the waggons, carts and drays
So clog up all these narrow ways,
It's quite a journey to come here.
Mrs. S. Lard! ma'm, I left it all to him,
Husbands, you know, will have their whim.