Alas! what a folly, what wealth and domain
We heap up in fin and in forrow!
Immenfe is the toil, yet the labour how vain!
Is not life to be over to-morrow?

Then glide on my moments, the few that I have
Smooth-fhaded, and quiet, and even ;
While gently the body descends to the grave,
And the spirit arises to heaven.

TO MR. DYER. BY CLIO*.

I'

VE done thy merit and my friendship wrong,

In holding back my gratitude fo long;
The foul is fure to equal tranfport rais'd,
That juftly praises, or is justly prais'd :
The generous only can this pleasure know,
Who taste the god-like virtue-to bestow!
I ev'n grow rich, methinks, while I commend
And feel the very praises which I fend.
Nor jealoufy nor female envy find,
Though all the Mufes are to Dyer kind.

Sing on, nor let your modeft fears retard,
Whofe verfe and pencil join, to force reward:
Your claim demands the bays, in double wreath,
Your Poems lighten, and your pictures breathe.
I wish to praise you, but beauties wrong i
your
No theme looks green, in Clio's artless fong:

But

Among the Poems of Mr. Savage, is an Epiftle,

occafioned by Mr. Dyer's Picture of this Lady.

But
yours
will an eternal verdure wear,
For Dyer's fruitful foul will flourish there.
My humbler lot was in low diftance laid;
I was, oh, hated thought! a woman made;
For houfhold cares, and empty trifles meant,
The Name does immortality prevent.
Yet let me stretch, beyond my fex, my mind,
And, rifing, leave the fluttering train behind;
Nor art, nor learning, wish'd affistance lends,
But nature, love, and mufic, are my friends.

THE

POE M S

O F

DAVID MALLET, Esq