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You laugh—'tis well—The tale applicd, May make you laugh on t'other side, Renounce the world--the preacher cries ; We do—a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A
snug and friendly game at cards ; And one, whatever you may say, Can see no evil in a play ; Some love a concert or a race ; And others shooting, and the chace, Revil'd and lov'd, renounc'd and follow'd, Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd; Each thinks his neighbour makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he : With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.
THE DEATH OF
MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S
YE nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
O share Maria’s grief !
Assassin'd by a thief.
190 LADY THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH.
Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
And, though by nature mute,
Of flagelet or flute.
The honours of his ebon poll
His bosom of the hue
To sweep away the dew.
Well lattic'd—but the grate, alas !
For Bully's plumage sake,
The swains their baskets make.
Night veil'd the pole; all seem'd secure
Subsistence to provide,
And badger-colour] hide.
He, ent’ring at the study door
And something in the wind
Conjectur’d, sniffing round and round,
Food chiefly for the mind.
In sleep he seem'd to view
Awoke and found it true.
For aided both by ear and scent,
Ah muse ! forbear to speak
He left poor Bully's beak.
Of such mellifluous tone,
Fast stuck within his own.
Maria weeps—the muses mourn-
On Thracean Hebrus' side,
The cruel death he died.
The Rose had been wash’d, just wash'd in a show'r,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem'd to a fanciful view,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
I snapp'd itit fell to the ground.
Some act by the delicate mind,
Already to sorrow resign'd.
Might have bloom'd with its owner a while ;
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
Man yet mistakes his way,
And heard the voice of love :
And sooth'd the list’ning dove :
No time shall disengage,
And constancy sincere,
Shall ne'er be felt by me,
Or kites are hov'ring near,
And press thy wedded side,
(Forgive a transient thought,) Thou could become unkind at last, And scorn thy present lot,
Or kites with cruel beak;
This widow'd heart would break