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And in that town a dog was found,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Around from all the neighb'ring streets
The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
And while they swore the dog was mad,
But soon a wonder came to light,
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH.
I AM sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be
only inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed to a man, who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds a-year.
I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your humble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where the harvest is great, and the labourers are but few; while you have left the field of ambition, where the labourers are many, and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds of ambition, what from the refinement of the times, from different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party, that which pursues poetical fame is the wildest.