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VII.
Each fun arises fresh with fweet content,

And leads them on a course of new delight;
With the same joy the summer's day is spent,

And o'er a cheerful fire their winter night,
Such are their joys who spend their lives aright:

Tho' seasons change, no sense of change they know,
But with an equal eye view all things here below.

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VIII.

When th' amorous earth is woo'd with smiling weather,

To wear the verdant mantle of the spring ;
orth walk the little family together
To see the wood, and hear its natives fing ;
The flow'rs sweet odours to their senses bring:

The world appears in blossom, far and near
Joyful they view the purple promise of the year.

IX.

Summer beholds the good man near his bride,

In sweet contentment smoaking in his chair ;
He views the flocks nibbling the mountain's fide,

And ev'ry tenth he reckons to his share.
Now to the hay field walk the happy pair,
And with such kindness

greet the country folk,
The parson's bush is plac'd upon the biggest cock.

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X.
The promis'd fruit now fills the teeming foil,

And certain plenty all his doubts relieves ;
The peach he planted pays his honeft toil,

The farmer brings him home his yellow sheaves,
And his stuff'd barn the willing tax receives.

His servants to his loaded orchards hye,
To lay in liquid stores for future jollity.

XI.

When icy bands the stiffened wave enfold,

Still is the parson with contentment crown'd;
The cheerful blaze chaces the chilly cold,

In circling cups all winter thoughts are drown'd,
And no ill nature sends the laugh around ;

Or he, in ftudy pent, thinks what to say,
May touch, yet not offend the squire next sabbath day.

XII.

Thus, still in age the same, he journeys on,

Till envious Fate o’ertake him on the road;
For the calm pleasures of the holy man

Claim not the madness of a youthful blood.
For many winters thus serenely stood,

Strong in its smooth decline, the sturdy oak,
Till came from heav'n th' unfear'd and unreafted stroke.

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S Bathian Venus t'other day

Invited all the Gods to tea,
Her maids of honour, the miss Graces,'
Attending duely in their places,
Their godfhips gave a loose to mirth,
As we at Butt'ring's here on earth.

Minerva in her usual way
Rallied the daughter of the sea.
Madam, said she, your lov'd resort,
The city where you

hold

your court,
Is lately fallen from its duty,
And triumphs more in wit than beauty ;
For here, she cried ; see here a poem
'Tis Dalfton’s ; you, Apollo, know him.
Little persuasion sure invites
Pallas to read what Dalfton writes :
Nay, I have heard that in Parnassus
For truth a current whisper passes,
That Dalfton sometimes has been known
To publish her works as his own.

Minerva

Minerva read, and every God
Approv'dJove gave the critic nod:
Apollo and the sacred Nine
Were charm’d, and smild at ev'ry line ;
· And Mars, who little understood,
Swore, d-n him, if it was not good.
Venus alone fat all the while
Silent, nor deign'd a single smile.
All were surpriz'd: some thought her ftupid:
Not so her confident 'squire Cupid ;
For well the little rogue discern’d
At what his mother was concern'd,
Yet not a word the urchin said,
But hid in Hebe's lap his head.
At length the rising choler broke
From Venus' lips, and thus she spoke.

That poetry so cram'd with wit,
Minerva, shou'd your palate hit,
I wonder not, nor that some prudes
(For fuch there are above the clouds)
Shou'd with the prize of beauty torn
From her they view with envious scorn.
Me

poets never please, but when
Justice and truth direct their pen.
This Dalston-formerly I've known hint;
Henceforth for ever I disown him;
For Homer's wit shall I despise
In him who writes with Homer's eyes.

A poem

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A poem on the faireft fair
At Bath, and Betty's name not there !
Hath not this

poet

seen those glances
In which my wicked urchin dances ?
Nor that dear dimple, where he treats
Himself with all Arabia's sweets ;
In whose soft down while he reposes
In vain the lillies bloom, or roses,
To tempt him from a sweeter bed
Of fairer white or livelier red ?
Hath he not seen, when some kind gale
Has blown aside the cambric veil,
That feat of paradise, where Jove
Might pamper his almighty love ?
Our milky way less fair does shew :
There summer's seen 'twixt hills of snow.
From her lov'd voice whene'er stie speaks,
What softness in each accent breaks !
And when her dimpled smiles arise,
What sweetness sparkles in her eyes !
Can I then bear, enrag'd she said,
Slights offer'd to my fav’ríte maid,
The nymph whom I decreed to be
The representative of me?

The Goddess ceas d--the Gods all bow'd,
Nor one the wicked bard avow'd,
Who, while in beauty's praise he writ,
Dar'd Beauty's Goddess to omit:

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