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SIMPLICITY.

(By the fame.)

IMPLICITY! thou lovely Fair, To thee the Mufe devotes her Song, To thee directs her ardent Pray'r;

For thee the leaves the civic Throng, Who vainly chafe the bafelefs Joys, Which every empty Breeze deftroys.

To gain the Courtier's faithlefs Smile,
Amid the Glare of Courts to fhine,
Let giddy Mortals idly toil;

I'll feek thy calm fequefter'd Shrine,
Where Health, Content, and Peace unite,
To give the Soul fupreme Delight.

How fweet, fair Nymph, with Thee to dwell!
Where vernal Beauties clothe the Field;

How sweet to view thy rugged Cell,

Beneath the mofs-grown Rock conceal'd;
Where Contemplation's powerful Beam
To Fancy gives the vagrant Dream.

How

How fweet with Innocence to rove!
Amid thy foft bewitching Throng!
Who tread the pleafing Paths of Love,
And often raise the rural Song,
Which foothes the fondly-liftening Ear,
And melts the Souls of those who hear.

Haste then, dear Nymph, with Brow ferene,
Conduct me to thy Sylvan Seat;
Hafte, lead me to the peaceful Scene,
Where thou haft fix'd thy bleft Retreat,
And there with fond Regard I'll pay
The Tribute of a ruftic Lay.

Beneath yon Shade, beyond yon Thorn,
Where Nature's Songfters raise the Strain,
With Thee I'll pafs the chearful Morn,
Remote from Sorrow, Grief, and Pain,
Save when the fadly-plaintive Note
Bursts from sweet Philomela's Throat.

Oft on yon blooming Bed of Flow'rs,
Whofe balmy Fragrance fcents the Gale,
With Thee I'll pafs the Noontide Hours,
Intent to hear the Shepherd's Tale,
Which flows from thy exhaustless Store,
Diffufing Joys unknown before.

Oft when the Shades of Evening fall,
And Cynthia fhines with doubtful Light,
On Thee, delightful Nymph, I'll call,

To fhow the Rock's ftupendous Height,
Where all thy Beauties ftrike the Eye,
With Grandeur, Pomp, and Majefty.

And

And to thefe Vallies oft I'll rove,
Where Midnight Fairies join the Ring,
Led on by Freedom, Mirth, and Love,
Infpir'd by Fancy when they fing;
And there from Pride, from Envy free,
I'll dedicate myself to thee.

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H

(By the fame.)

AIL ye SYMPATHETIC Pleafures,
Soft Deluders of the Mind,

Your's are Fancy's glowing Measures,
Your's are Virtue's Joys refin'd.

Your's are Pity's kindred Sorrows,
Your's are Mercy's chearing Smiles,
Your's the Form which Transport borrows,
Where no felfifh Blifs beguiles..

Hafte, ye pleafing Powers, and banish
From my Breaft each partial Care,

Let th'unfocial Purpofe vanish
In the boundlefs Fields of Air.

Give

Give my Soul each raptur'd Feeling,
Which thy generous Joys beftow;
And when Sorrow's Tears are ftealing,
Touch my Heart with manly Woe.

Then through Life, without repining,
In an even Course I'll ftray,
Till with hoary Age declining,
Death proclaims his deftin'd Prey.

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