But 'tis not timber, lead, and ftone, An architect requires alone
To finish a fine building
The palace were but half complete, If he could poffibly forget
The carving and the gilding.
The man that hails you Tom or Jack, And proves by thumps upon your back How he esteems your merit,
Is fuch a friend, that one had need Be very much his friend indeed
To pardon or to bear it.
As fimilarity of mind,
Or fomething not to be defined, Firft fixes our attention;
So manners decent and polite, The fame we practifed at firft fight, Muft fave it from declenfion.
Some act upon this prudent plan, "Say little and hear all you can."
Safe policy, but hateful-- ́ So barren fands imbibe the shower, But render neither fruit nor flower,
Unpleafant and ungrateful.
'The man I truft, if fhy to me, Shall find me as referved as he, No fubterfuge or pleading Šhall win my confidence again, I will by no means entertain A spy on my proceeding.
These famples för alas! at last These are but famples, and a tafte Of evils yet unmentioned- May prove the task a task indeed, In which 'tis much if we fucceed However well-intentioned.
Purfue the fearch, and you will find Good fenfe and knowledge of mankind To be at least expedient, And after fumming all the reft, Religion ruling in the breaft
A principal ingredient.
The nobleft Friendship ever fhewn The Saviour's history makes known, Though fome have turned and turned it ; And whether being crazed or blind, Or feeking with a biased mind,
Have dot, it seems, difcerned it.
Oh Friendmip! if my foul forego
Thy dear delights while here below; To mortify and grieve me,
May I myself at last appear Unworthy, bafe, and infincere, Or may my friend deceive me!
Pale death with equal foot ftrikes wide the door Of royal halls, and hovels of the poor.
WHILE thirteen moons faw fmoothly run The Nen's barge-laden wave,
All thefe, life's rambling journey done, Have found their home, the grave.
Was man (frail always) made more frail Than in foregoing years?
Did famine or did plague prevail,
Trat fo much death appears?
No; these were vigorous as their fires, Nor plague nor famine came; This annual tribute death requires, And never waves his claim.
Like crowded foreft-trees we ftand, And fome are marked to fall; The axe will fmite at God's command, And foon fhall fmite us all.
Green as the bay-tree, ever green, With its new foliage on,
The gay, the thoughtless, I have seen, I paffed-and they were gone.
Read, ye that run, the folemn truth, With which I charge my page; A worm is in the bud of youth, And at the root of age.
No prefent health can health insure For yet an hour to come;
No medicine, though it often cure, Can always baulk the tomb.
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