And what of life remains for me Half pleas'd, contented will I be, Mrs. Greville. THE SIGH. GENTLE air, thou breath of lovers, Softest note of whisper'd anguish, Striking, while thou seem'st to languish, Softest messenger of passion, Shapeless sigh, we ne'er can show thee, Yet, ere to their cost they know thee, Vocal Magazine. I CARELESS CONTENT. AM content, I do not care, Wag as it will the world for me; With more of thanks, and less of thought, With good and gentle-humour'd hearts, For chance or change, of peace or pain; I suit not where I shall not speed, : I make no bustling, but abide. For shining wealth, or scaring woe, I force no friend, I fear no foe. Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, Of they're i'th' wrong, and we're i'th' right, I shun the rancours, and the routs ; And wishing well to ev'ry wight, Whatever turn the matter takes, I deem it all but ducks and drakes. With whom I feast I do not fawn, Nor if the folks should flout me, faint; If wonted welcome be withdrawn, I cook no kind of a complaint: Not that I rate myself the rule How all my betters should behave; I love a friendship free and frank, Fond of a true and trusty tie, I never loose where'er I link; I talk thereon just as I think: If names or notions make a noise, And read and write, but without wrath; For should I burn, and break my brains, Pray, who will pay me for my pains? I love my neighbour as myself, Now taste and try this temper, sirs, Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, Dr. Byrom. THE BLIND MAN'S CONSOLATION. THO' darkness still attends me, It aids internal sight, And from such scenes defends me No weeping objects grieve me, Then cease your useless wailings- Are all as blind as I. The Bouquet. EPIGRAM. A VICAR, long ill, who had treasur'd up wealth, Told his Curate each sunday to pray for his health; Which oft having done, a parishioner said, That the Curate ought rather to wish he were dead; "For my truth," says the Curate, "let credit be given, I ne'er pray'd for his death-but I have for his living." |