Within a Meadow, on the way,
A sordid Churl resolv'd to stay,
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How gayly is at first begun
Our Life's uncertain Race!
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The Tree of Knowlege we in Eden prov'd;
The Tree of Life was thence to Heav'n remov'd:
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Would we attain the happiest State,
That is design'd us here;
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O Man! what Inspiration was thy Guide,
Who taught thee Light and Air thus to divide;
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NO better Dog e'er kept his Master's Door
Than honest Snarl, who spar'd nor Rich nor Poor;
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A Female Friend advis'd a Swain
(Whose Heart she wish'd at ease)
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Persuade me not, there is a Grace
Proceeds from Silvia's Voice or Lute,
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VAIN Love, why do'st thou boast of Wings,
That cannot help thee to retire!
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LOVE, thou art best of Human Joys,
Our chiefest Happiness below;
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Where is that World, to which the Fancy flies,
When Sleep excludes the Present from our Eyes;
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Two long had Lov'd, and now the Nymph desir'd,
The Cloak of Wedlock, as the Case requir'd;
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When Poets gave their God in Crete a Birth,
Then Jupiter held Traffick with the Earth,
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A brazen Pot, by scouring vext,
With Beef and Pudding still perplext,
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In Fanscomb Barn (who knows not Fanscomb Barn?)
Seated between the sides of rising Hills,
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NOW spent the alter'd King, in am'rous Cares,
The Hours of sacred Hymns and solemn Pray'rs:
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What art thou, SPLEEN, which ev'ry thing dost ape?
Thou Proteus to abus'd Mankind,
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On the Banks of the Severn a desperate Maid
(Whom some Shepherd, neglecting his Vows, had betray'd,)
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A Fond Athenian Mother brought
A Sculptor to indulge her Thought,
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Soothing his Passions with a warb'ling Sound,
A Shepherd-Swain lay stretch'd upon the Ground;
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Silvia, let's from the Croud retire;
For, What to you and me
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O King of Terrors, whose unbounded Sway
All that have Life, must certainly Obey;
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Cou'd our First Father, at his toilsome Plough,
Thorns in his Path, and Labour on his Brow,
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Since the Road of Life's so ill;
I, to pass it, use this Skill,
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No Cautions of a Matron, Old and Sage,
Young Rattlehead to Prudence cou'd engage;
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A Greedy Heir long waited to fulfill,
As his Executor, a Kinsman's Will;
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CUPID, ere depriv'd of Sight,
Young and apt for all Delight,
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Observe this Piece, which to our Sight does bring
The fittest Posture for the Swedish King;
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'Tis fit SERENA shou'd be sung.
High-born SERENA, Fair and Young,
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POOR River, now thou'rt almost dry,
What Nymph, or Swain, will near thee lie?
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