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But coronets we owe to crowns,

And favour to a court's affection; By nature we are Adam's sons,

And sons of Anstis by election. Kingsale! eight hundred years have roll’d,

Since thy forefathers held a plough; When this in story shall be told,

Add, that my kindred do so now. The man who by his labour gets

His bread in independent state, Who never begs and seldom eats,

Himself can fix or change his fate. Prior.



INTERR'd beneath this marble stone,
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run;
If human things went ill or well,
If changing empires rose or fell,
The morning pass'd, the evening came,
And found this couple still the same.
They walk'd, and ate, good folks; what then?
Why, then they walk'd and ate again.
They soundly slept the night away;
They did just nothing all the day:
And having buried children four,
Would not take pains to try for more.
Nor sister either had, nor brother;
They seem'd just tallied for each other.

Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree; Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespass'd ou the other's ground. Nor fame nor censure they regarded; They neither punish'd nor rewarded. He card not what the footmen did; Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid ; So every servant took his course, And, bad at first, they all grew worse. Slothful disorder fill'd his stable, And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. Their beer was strong; their wine was port; Their meal was large; their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat.

They paid the church and parish rate,
And took, but read not, the receipt;
For which they claim'd their Sunday's due,
Of slumbering in an upper pew.

No man's defects sought they to know,
So never made themselves a foe :
No man's good deeds did they commend,
So never rais'd themselves a friend.
Nor cherisb’d they relations poor ;
That might decrease their present store :
Nor barn nor house did they repair ;
That might oblige their future heir.

They neither added nor confounded;
They neither wanted nor abounded.
Each Christmas they accounts did clear,
And wound their bottom round the year.
Nor tear, nor smile did they employ
At news of public grief or joy.

When bells were rung and bonfires made,
If ask'd, they ne'er denied their aid :
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died or married :
Their billet at the fire was found,
Whoever was depos’d or crown’d.

Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise,
They would not learn, nor could advise :
Withont love, hatred, joy, or fear,
They led--a kind of-as it were :
Nor wish’d, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried;
And so they liv'd, and so they died. Prior.

The tree of deepest root is found,
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life, increas'd with years
So much, that in our later stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,

The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection, to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale..

When sports went round, and all were gay
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the joennd groom
With him into another room :
And looking grave, “Yon must,' says he,
“Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'

With you, and qnit my Susan's side!
With you!' the hapless husband cried :
"Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepard :
My thoughts on other matters go,
This is my wedding-night, you know.'

What more he urg'd I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger;

So Death the poor delinquent spard,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled wbile he spoke,
• Neighbour,' he said, 'farewell: no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And further to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summon’d to the grave:
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But when I call again this way,
Well pleas'd the world will leave.”

To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befel, How long he liv’d, how wise, how well, How roundly he pursu'd his course, And smok'd his pipe, and strok'd his horse,

The willing muse shall tell.

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He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not false, his wife po shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He pass'd his hours in peace ;
But while he view'd bis wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncallid, upheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

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And now one night in musing mood,

As all alone he sate, 'Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate Once more before him stood.

Half kill'd with anger and surprise, So soon return'd!' old Dobson cries.

“So soon, d'ye call it P’ Death replies : Surely, my friend, you're but in jest,

Since I was here before, 'Tis six-and-thirty years at least,

And you are now fourscore.' "So much the worse,' the clown rejoin'd; 'To spare the aged would be kind; Besides, you promisd me Three Warnings, Which I have look'd for nights and mornings : But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages.'

'I know,' cries Death, that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least;

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