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He for that who tills and cultures,

Now may laugh, but when Old Scratch
Spreads his net for sharks and vultures,

What a swarm he'll have to catch !
Heaps of grain then let them hoard up ;-

Heaps of wealth while they count o'er,
All the treasures I have stored up
Are the Blessings of the Poor!

John Collins.

CCLXV.

RICH AND POOR; OR, SAINT AND SINNER.

The poor man's sins are glaring;
In the face of ghostly warning

He is caught in the fact

Of an overt act-
Buying greens on Sunday morning.
The rich man's sins are hidden
In the pomp of wealth and station ;

And escape the sight

Of the children of light,
Who are wise in their generation.
The rich man has a kitchen,
And cooks to dress his dinner;

The poor who would roast

To the baker's must post,
And thus becomes a sinner.
The rich man has a cellar,
And a ready butler by him;

The poor must steer

For his pint of beer
Where the Saint can't choose but spy him.
The rich man's painted windows
Hide the concerts of the quality;

The poor can but share

A crack'd fiddle in the air,
Which offends all sound morality.

The rich man is invisible
In the crowd of his gay society;

But the poor man's delight

Is a sore in the sight,
And a stench in the nose of piety.

Thomas L. Peacock,

CCLXVI,

THE KISS.

AMONG thy fancies, tell me this,
What is the thing we call a kiss ?
I shall resolve you what it is.

It is a creature born and bred
Between the lips, all cherry-red,
By Love and warm desires fed,

And makes more soft the bridal bed.

It is an active flame, that flies
First to the babies of the eyes,
And charms them there with lullabies,

And stills the bride, too, when she cries.

Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,
It frisks and flies, -now here, now there,
'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near,

And here, and there, and everywhere.

Has it a speaking virtue? Yes.
How speaks it, say? Do you but this,
Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss ;

And this Love's sweetest language is.

Hlas it a body? Aye, and wings,
With thousands rare encolourings;
And as it Aies, it gently sings,
Love honey yields, but never stings.

Robert Herrick.

CCLXVII.

My love and I for kisses play'd;

She would keep stakes, I was content ; But when I won she would be paid,

This made me ask her what she meant; Nay, since I see (quoth she) you wrangle in vain, Take your own kisses, give me mine again.

William Strode.

CCLXVIII.

TO A KISS.

SOFT child of Love—thou balmy bliss,
Inform me, O delicious Kiss !
Why thou so suddenly art gone,
Lost in the moment thou art won ?
Yet, go--for wherefore should I sigh ?-
On Delia's lip, with raptured eye,
On Delia's blushing lip, I see
A thousand full as sweet as thee !

John Wolcot.

CCLXIX.

ON A KISS.

PHILOSOPHERS pretend to tell,
How like a hermit in his cell,
The soul within the brain does dwell :
But I, who am not half so wise,
Think I have seen't in Chloe's eyes,
Down to her lips from thence it stole,
And there I kiss'd her very soul.

Unknown

CCLXX.

THE AUBURN LOCK.

COME, lovely lock of Julia's hair,
The gift of that bewitching fair,
Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid,
Thou precious little auburn braid !

Of Julia's charms, O sacred part,
Thou'st drank the pure stream of her heart;
Thou'st tended on my love's repose,
Thou'st kiss'd her fingers when she rose,
And, half concealing many a grace,
Giv'n added powers to that sweet face :
Oft, careless, o'er her shoulders flung,
Down her small waist redundant hung ;
And oft thy wanton curls have press'd,
And dared to kiss her snow-white breast !
High favour'd lock! O, thou shalt be
The dearest gift of life to me.
Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid,
Delightful little auburn braid !
And art thou mine? and did my fair
Intrust thee to her lover's care?
What streams of bliss wilt thou impart,
Who drank the stream of Julia's heart!
O, thou shalt be the healing power
To soothe me in misfortune's hour,
And oft, beneath my pillow laid,
My soul in dreams will ask thine aid.
Thou shalt inspire with full delight
The fairest visions of the night ;
For thou, intrusive lock, hast spread
And wanton'd o'er my Julia's bed ;
Seen the sweet languish of her eyes,
Heard all her wishes, all her sighs :
O, thou hast been divinely bless'd,
And pass'd whole nights on Julia's breast.
Come, then, dear ock of Julia's hair,
The gift of that enchanting fair.
Come, next my heart shalt thou be laid,
Delightful little auburn braid !

Unknown.

CCLXXI. ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET, A

PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.

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Well tried thro' many a varying year,

See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

In Misery's darkest cavern known,

His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groan,

And lonely Want retired to die.
No summons mock'd by chill delay,

No petty gain disdain'd by pride,
The modest wants of every day,

The toil of every day supplied.
His virtues walked their narrow round,

Nor made a pause nor left a void :
And sure the Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ’d.

Samuel Johnson.

CCLXXII.

MARIAN'S COMPLAINT.

SINCE truth ha' left the shepherd's tongue,
Adieu the cheerful pipe and song;
Adieu the dance at closing day,
And, ah, the happy morn of May.

How oft he told me I was fair,
And wove the garland for my hair •
How oft for Marian stript the bower,
To fill my lap with every flower !

No more his gifts of guile I'll wear,
But from my brow the chaplet tear ;
The crook he gave in pieces break,
And rend his ribbons from my neck.

How oft he vow'd a constant flame,
And carved on every oak my name !
Blush, Colin, that the wounded tree
Is all that will remember me.

John Wolcot.

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