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THE MODERN SAINT.

HER time with equal prudence Silvia fhares,
First writes a billet-doux, then fays her prayers;
Her mafs and toilet; vefpers and the play;
Thus God and Ashtaroth divide the day :
Conftant fhe keeps her Ember-week and Lent,
At Eafter calls all Ifrael to her tent:
Loose without bawd, and pious without zeal,
She ftill repeats the fins fhe would conceal.
Envy herself from Silvia's life muft grant,
An artful woman makes a Modern Saint.

THE PARALLEL.

PROMETHEUS, forming Mr. Day,

Carv'd fomething like a man in clay.

The mortal's work might well miscarry;
HE, that does Heaven and earth control,
Alone has power to form a foul,

His hand is evident in Harry.

Since one is but a moving clod,

T'other the lively form of God; "Squire Wallis, you will scarce be able, To prove all poetry but fable.

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TO A YOUNG LADY,

Who was fond of FORTUNE-TELLING.

OU, Madam, may with safety go,

You

Decrees of destiny to know;

For at your birth kind planets reign'd,
And certain happiness ordain'd:
Such charms as yours are only given
To chofen favourites of Heaven.
But, fuch is my uncertain ftate,
'Tis dangerous to try my fate;
For I would only know from art,
The future motions of your heart,
And what predeftinated doom
Attends my love for years to come;
No fecrets elfe, that mortals learn,
My cares deserve, or life concern:
But this will fo important be,

I dread to fearch the dark decree;
For, while the fmalleft hope remains,
Faint joys are mingled with my pains;
Vain diftant views my fancy please,
And give fome intermitting ease:
But, fhould the ftars too plainly show
That
you have doom'd my endless woe,
No human force, or art, could bear
The torment of my wild despair.

This fecret then I dare not know,
And other truths are ufelefs now.
What matters, if unbleft in love,
How long or fhort my life will prove?

To gratify what low desire,

Should I with needlefs hafte enquire,
How great, how wealthy, I fhall be ?
Oh! what is wealth or power to me!
If I am happy, or undone,

It must proceed from you alone.

A GREEK EPIGRAM imitated.

WHEN hungry wolves had trefpafs'd on the fold,

And the robb'd fhepherd his fad ftory told;

“Call in Alcides," said a crafty prieft;

"Give him one half, and he 'll fecure the rest."
No faid the fhepherd, if the Fates decree,
By ravaging my flock, to ruin me;

To their commands I willingly refign,

Power is their character, and patience mine;
Though, troth! to me there feems but little odds,
Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or gods !

To a FRIEND on his NUPTIALS.

WHEN Jove lay bleft in his Alemæna's charms,

Three nights, in one, he preft her in his arms; The fun lay fet, and confcious Nature ftrove To fhade her God, and to prolong his love. From that aufpicious night Alcides came, What lefs could rife from Jove, and fuch a Dame ? May this aufpicious night with that compare, Nor lefs the joys, nor lefs the rifing heir; He ftrong as Jove, fhe like Alcmæna fair!

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THE WANDERING PILGRIM.

Humbly addreffed to Sir THO. FRANKLAND, Bart. Foft-Mafter, and Pay-Mafter-General to Queen ANNE.

ILL Piggot* must to Coxwould † go,

WILL

To live, alas! in want,

Unlefs Sir Thomas fay, No, no;

Th' allowance is too fcant.

The gracious Knight full well does weet,,
Ten farthings ne'er will do

To keep a man each day in meat,
Some bread to meat is due.

A Rechabite poor Will must live,
And drink of Adam's ale,
Pure element no life can give,
Or mortal foul regale.

Spare diet, and fpring-water clear,

Physicians hold are good;
Who diets thus, need never fear
A fever in the blood.

But pafs The Æfculapian crew,

Who cat and quaff the best,

They feldom mifs to bake and brew,

Or lin to break their faft.

This merry petition was written to obtain the

porter's place for Will Piggot.

Twelve miles north, beyond the city of York.

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Could

Could Yorkshire-tyke but do the fame,
Then he like them might thrive;
But Fortune, Fortune, cruel Dame!
To ftarve thou doft him drive.

In Will's old Master's plenteous days,.
His memory e'er be bleft!

What need of fpeaking in his praise ?
His goodness ftands confest.

At his fam'd gate ftood Charity,
In lovely sweet array ;
Ceres and Hofpitality

Dwelt there both night and day.

But, to conclude, and be concife,
Truth muft Will's voucher be:
Truth never yet went in disguise,
For naked ftill is fhe.

There is but one, but one alone,
Can fet the Pilgrim free,

And make him ceafe to pine and moan;

O Frankland! it is Thee.

Oh! fave him from a dreary way,

To Coxwould he muft hye, Bereft of thee, he wends aftray,. At Coxwould he muft die.

Oh let him in thy hall but ftand,

And wear a porter's gown,

Duteous to what thou may'st command,

Thus William's wifhes crown.

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