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Wherever driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from every ill befide.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around,
Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all, not you.
The nobleft minds their virtue prove
By pity, fympathy, and love,
Thefe, thefe are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.

His cenfure reach'd them as he dealt it,
And each by fhrinking fhew'd he felt it.

To

To the Rev. WILLIAM CAWTHORNE UNWIN.

1.

UNWIN, I should but ill repay,

The kindness of a friend,
Whofe worth deserves as warm a lay
As ever friendship penn'd,

Thy name omitted in a page,

That would reclaim a vicious age.

2.

An union form'd, as mine with thee,

Not rafhly or in fport,

May be as fervent in degree,
And faithful in its fort,
And may as rich in comfort prove,
As that of true fraternal love.

3.
The bud inferted in the rind,

The bud of peach or rose,
Adorns, though diff'ring in its kind,

The ftock whereon it

grows

With flow'r as fweet or fruit as fair,

As if produc'd by nature there.

4.

Not rich, I render what I may,
I feize thy name in hafte,
And place it in this first affsay,

Left this should prove the last. "Tis where it should be, in a plan That holds in view the good of man.

5.

The poet's lyre, to fix his fame,
Should be the poet's heart,
Affection lights a brighter flame

Than ever blaz'd by art.
No mufes on these lines attend,
I fink the poet in the friend.

FINI S.

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POE M S,

B Y

WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ.

VOL. II.

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