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WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION:
OH, happy shades—to me unblest!
How ill the scene that offers rest,
This glassy stream, that spreading pine,
Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,
But fix’d unalterable Care
Shows the same sadness ev’ry where,
For all that pleas'd in wood or lawn,
The saint or moralist should tread
They seek like me the secret shade,
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste
These tell me of enjoyments past,
I. WHAT Nature, alas! has denied To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied, And winter is deck'd with a smile. See, Mary, what beauties I bring From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flow’rs have the charms of the spring; Though abroad they are frozen and dead. II. *Tis a bow'r of Arcadian sweets, Where Flora is still in her prime, A fortress to which she retreats From the cruel assaults of the clime. While Earth wears a mantle of snow, These pinks are as fresh and as gay, As the fairest and sweetest that blow On the beautiful bosom of May. III. See how they have safely surviv'd The frowns of a sky so severe; Such Mary's true love, that has liv'd Through many a turbulent year The charms of the late blowing rose Seem grac'd with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows The truth of a friend such as you.
NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.
THE lady thus address'd her spouse:— What a mere dungeon is this house! By no means large enough; and was it, Yet this dull room, and that dark closet, Those hangings with their worn-out graces, Long beards, long noses, and pale faces, Are such an antiquated scene, They overwhelm me with the spleen. Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark, Makes answer quite beside the mark: No doubt, my dear, Ibade him come, Engag’d myself to be at home, And shall expect him at the door, Precisely when the clock strikes four. You are so deaf the lady cried, (And rais'd her voice, and frown'd beside.) You are so sadly deaf, my dear, What shall I do to make you hear? Dismiss poor Harry! he replies; Some people are more nice than wise: For one slight trespass all this stir f What if h9 did ride whip and spur,
*Twas but a mile—your favorite horse