(Whose tap'stry shows, without my aid,
A nun is no such useless maid),
A graceful person came in view,
(His form, it seems, is known to few);
His dress was unadorn'd with lace,
But charms! a thousand in his face.
“This, Sir, your property?" I cry'd-
"Master and Mansion coincide;
Where all, indeed, is truly great,

And proves, that bliss may dwell with state:
Pray, Sir, indulge a stranger's claim,
And grant the favour of your name."
"CONTENT," the lovely form reply'd;

"But think not here that I reside:
Here lives a courtier, base and sly;
An open, honest, rustic I,

Our taste and manners disagree;
His levee boasts no charms for me;
For titles, and the smiles of kings,
To me are cheap unheeded things.
('Tis virtue can alone impart
The patent of a ducal heart:
Unless this herald speaks him great,
What shall avail the glare of state?)
Those secret charms are my delight,
Which shine remote from public sight:
Passions subdued, desires at rest,-

And hence his chaplain shares my breast."

"There was a time (his Grace can tell)

I knew the Duke exceeding well;
Knew every secret of his heart;
In truth, we never were apart:
But when the Court became his end,
He turn'd his back upon his friend.
"One day I call'd upon his Grace,
Just as the Duke had got a place:
I thought (but thought amiss, 'tis clear)
I should be welcome to the peer:
Yes; welcome to a man in pow'r!
And so I was for half an hour.

"But he grew weary of his guest,
And soon discarded me his breast;
Upbraided me with want of merit,
But most for poverty of spirit.

"You relish not the great man's lot?Come, hasten to my humbler cot.

Think me not partial to the great,

I'm a sworn foe to pride and state!
No monarchs share my kind embrace,
There's scarce a monarch knows my face:
Content shuns courts, and oft'ner dwells
With modest Worth in rural cells;

There's no complaint, though brown the bread,
Or the rude turf sustain the head;

Though hard the couch, and coarse the meat, Still the brown loaf and sleep are sweet

"Far from the city I reside,
And a thatch'd cottage all my pride.
True to my heart, I seldom roam,
Because I find my joys at home:
For foreign visits then begin,

When the man feels a void within.

"But though from towns and crowds I fly, No humourist, nor cynic, I.

Amidst sequester'd shades I prize,
The friendships of the good and wise.
Bid Virtue and her sons attend;
Virtue will tell thee, I'm her friend;
Tell thee, I'm faithful, constant, kind,
And meek, and lowly, and resign'd;
Will say, there's no distinction known
Betwixt her household and my own."

Author. "If these the friendships you pursue,
Your friends, I fear, are very few.
So little company, you say,
Yet fond of home from day to day!
How do you shun Detraction's rod?
I doubt your neighbours think you odd."
Content. "I commune with myself at night,

And ask my heart if all be right.
If right,' replies my faithful breast,

I smile, and close my eyes to rest."

Author. "You seem regardless of the town: Pray, Sir, how stand you with the gown?"

Content. "The Clergy say they love me well, Whether they do they best can tell, They paint me modest, friendly, wise, And always praise me to the skies; But if conviction's at the heart, Why not a correspondent part? For shall the learned tongue prevail, If actions preach a different tale? Who'll seek my door or grace my walls, When neither dean nor prelate calls? "With those my friendship most obtain, Who prize their duty more than gain; Soft flow the hours whene'er we meet, And conscious virtue is our treat; Our harmless breasts no envy know, And hence we fear no secret foe; Our walks Ambition ne'er attends, And hence we ask no powerful friends; We wish the best to Church and State, But leave the steerage to the great; Careless, who rises, or who falls, And never dream of vacant stalls; Much less by pride or interest drawn, Sigh for the mitre and the lawn. Observe the secrets of my art, I'll fundamental truths impart: And if you'll my advice pursue, I'll quit my hut and dwell with you.

"The Passions are a num'rous crowd, Imperious, positive, and loud:

Curb these licentious sons of strife;
Hence chiefly rise the storms of life:
If they grow mutinous, and rave,
They are thy masters, thou their slave.
"Regard the world with cautious eye,.
Nor raise your expectation high.
See that the balanc'd scales be such,
You neither fear nor hope too much.
For disappointment's not the thing,
'Tis pride and passion point the sting.
Life is a sea, where storms must rise,
'Tis Folly talks of cloudless skies:
He who contracts his swelling sail
Eludes the fury of the gale.

Be still, nor anxious thoughts employ, Distrust embitters present joy:

On God for all events depend;

You cannot want when God's your friend.
Weigh well your part, and do your best;
Leave to your Maker all the rest.

The hand which form'd thee in the womb,
Guides from the cradle to the tomb.
Can the fond mother slight her boy?
Can she forget her prattling joy?
Say then, shall sov'reign Love desert
The humble and the honest heart?