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How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forsake!
How could you win my virgin heart,

Yet leave that heart to break ?
Why did you say my lip was sweet,

And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid!

Believe the flattering tale?
That face, alas ! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red :
Dark are my eyes, now closed in death,

And every charm is fled.
The hungry worm my sister is ;

This winding-sheet I wear:
And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.
But hark ! the cock has warned me hence ;

A long and last adieu !
Come see, false man, how low she lies,

Who died for love of you.
The lark sung loud; the morning smiled

With beams of rosy red :
Pale William quaked in every limb,

And raving left his bed.
He hied him to the fatal place

Where Margaret's body lay;
And stretched him on the green-grass turf

Tbat wrapt her breathless clay.
And thrice he called on Margaret's name,

And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,

And word spake never more!

His sister, who, like envy formed,

Like her in mischief joyed,
To work them harm, with wicked skill,

Each darker art employed.
The father too, a sordid man,

Who love nor pity knew, Was all unfeeling as the clod

From whence his riches grew. Long had he seen their secret flame,

And seen it long unmoved ;
Then with a father's frown at last

Had sternly disapproved.
In Edwin's gentle heart, a war

Of differing passions strove:
His heart, that durst not disobey,

Yet could not cease to love.
Denied her sight, he oft behind

The spreading hawthorn crept,
To snatch a glance, to mark the spot

Where Emma walked and wept.
Oft, too, on Stanmore's wintry waste,

Beneath the moonlight shade, In sighs to pour his softened soul,

The midnight mourner strayed.
His cheek, where health with beauty glowed,

A deadly pale o'ercast ;
So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blast.

Edwin and Emma.
Far in the windings of a vale,

Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of health and peace,

A humble cottage stood.
There beauteous Emma flourished fair,

Beneath a mother's eye;
Whose only wish on earth was now

To see her blest, and die.
The softest blush that nature spreads

Gave colour to her cheek;
Such orient colour smiles through heaven,

When vernal mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great ones scorn

This charmer of the plains :
That sun, who bids their diamonds blaze,

To paint our lily deigns.
Long had she filled each youth with love,

Each maiden with despair;
And though by all a wonder owned,

Yet knew not she was fair:
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,

A soul devoid of art ;
And from whose eye, serenely mild,

Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual flame was quickly caught,

Was quickly too revealed ;
For neither bosom lodged a wish

That virtue keeps concealed.
What happy hours of home-felt bliss

Did love on both bestow!
But bliss too mighty long to last,

Where fortune proves a foe.

The parents now, with late remorse,

Hung o'er his dying bed ; And wearied Heaven with fruitless pows,

And fruitless sorrows shed.
'Tis past! he cried, but, if your souls

Sweet mercy yet can move,
Let these dim eyes once more behold

What they must ever love!
She came; his cold hand softly touched,

And bathed with many a tear:
Fast-falling o'er the primrose pale,

So morning dews appear.
But oh! his sister's jealous care,

A cruel sister she !
Forbade what Emma came to say;

‘My Edwin, live for me!'
Now homeward as she hopeless wept,

The churchyard path along,
The blast blew cold, the dark owl screamed

Her lover's funeral song.
Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found
In every bush his hovering shade,

His groan in every sound.
Alone, appalled, thus had she passed

The visionary vale
When lo! the death-bell smote her ear,

Sad sounding in the gale!
Just then she reached, with trembling step,

Her aged mother's door :
He's gone! she cried, and I shall see

That angel-face no more.
I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high against my side!
From her white arm down sunk her head-
She shivered, sighed, and died.

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the fall of one of his father's cleavers, or hatchets, The Birks of Invermay.

on his foot-rendered him lame for life, and perThe smiling morn, the breathing spring, petuated the recollection of his lowly birth. The Invite the tunefu' birds to sing;

Society of Dissenters advanced a sum for the eduAnd, while they warble from the spray,

cation of the poet as a clergyman, and he repaired Love melts the universal lay.

to Edinburgh for this purpose in his eighteenth Let us, Amanda, timely wise,

year. He afterwards' repented of this destination, Like them, improve the hour that flics ;

and, returning the money, entered himself as a stuAnd in soft raptures waste the day,

dent of medicine. He was then a poet, and in his Among the birks of Invermay.

Hymn to Science, written in Edinburgh, we see at For soon the winter of the year,

once the formation of his classic taste, and the And age, Kife's winter, will appear;

dignity of his personal character :-
At this thy living bloom will fade,

That last best effort of thy skill,
As that will strip the verdant shade.

To form the life and rule the will,
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er,

Propitious Power ! impart;
The feathered songsters are no more;

Teach me to cool my passion's fires,
And when they drop and we decay,

Make me the judge of my desires,
Adieu the birks of Invermay!

The master of my heart.

Raise me above the vulgar's breath,
Some additional stanzas were added to the above

Pursuit of fortune, fear of death,
by Dr Bryce, Kirknewton. Invermay is in Perth-

And all in life that's mean; shire, the native county of Mallet, and is situated

Still true to reason be my plan,
near the termination of a little picturesque stream

Still let my actions speak the man,
called the May. The birk' or birch-tree is abun-
dant, adding grace and beauty to rock and stream.

Through every various scene.
Though a Ceit by birth and language, Mallet had A youth animated by such sentiments, promised a
none of the imaginative wildness or superstition of manhood of honour and integrity. After three
his native country. Macpherson, on the other hand, years spent in Edinburgh, Akenside removed to
seems to have been completely imbued with it.

Leyden to complete his studies; and in 1744 he was admitted to the degree of M.D. He next esta

blished himself as a physician in London. In HolMARK AKENSIDE.

land he had (at the age of twenty-three) writThe author of The Pleasures of Imagination, one ten his 'Pleasures of Imagination, which he now of the most pure and noble-minded poems of the offered to Dodsley, demanding £120 for the copyage, was of humble origin. His parents were dis- right. The bookseller consulted Pope, who told senters, and the Puritanism imbibed in his early him to make no piggardly offer, since this was no years seems, as in the case of Milton, to have given every-day writer.' The poem attracted much ata gravity and earnestness to his character, and a tention, and was afterwards translated into French love of freedom to his thoughts and imagination. and Italian. Akenside established himself as a MARK AKENSIDE was the son of a respectable physician in Northampton, where he remained a

year and a-half, but did not succeed. The latter part of his life was spent in London. At Leyden he had formed an intimacy with a young Englishman of fortune, Jeremiah Dyson, Esq., which ripened into a friendship of the most close and enthusiastic description; and Mr Dyson (who was afterwards clerk of the House of Commons, a lord of the treasury, &c.) had the generosity to allow the poet £300 a-year. After writing a few Odes, and attempting a total alteration of his great poem (in which he

was far from successful), Akenside made no further A

efforts at composition. His society was courted for his taste, knowledge, and eloquence; but his solemn sententiousness of manner, his romantic ideas of liberty, and his unbounded admiration of the ancients, exposed him occasionally to ridicule. The physician in Peregrine Pickle, who gives a feast in the manner of the ancients, is supposed to have been a caricature of Akenside. The description, for rich humour and grotesque combinations of learning and folly, has not been excelled by Smollett; but it was unworthy his talents to cast ridicule on a man of high character and splendid genius. Akenside died suddenly of a putrid sore throat, on the 23d of June 1770, in his 49th year, and was buried in St James's church. With a feeling common to poets, as to more ordinary mortals, Akenside, in his latter days, reverted with delight to his native landscape on the banks of the Tyne. In his fragment of a fourth book of The Pleasures of Imagination,' written in the last year of his life, there is the following beau

tiful passage: House in which Akenside was born.

Oye dales butcher at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, where he was born, Of Tyne, and ye most ancient woodlands; where November 9, 1721. An accident in his early years, Oft as the giant flood obliquely strides,

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And his banks open and his lawns extend, learned poet, perhaps superior. His knowledge was Stops short the pleased traveller to view,

better digested. But Gray had not the romantic Presiding o'er the scene, some rustic tower

enthusiasm of character, tinged with pedantry, which Founded by Norman or by Saxon hands :

naturally belonged to Akenside. He had also the O ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook experience of mature years. The genius of AkenThe rocky pavement and the mossy falls

side was early developed, and his diffuse and florid Of solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream!

descriptions seem the natural product-marvellous How gladly I recall your well-known seats

of its kind-of youthful exuberance. He was afterBeloved of old, and that delightful time

wards conscious of the defects of his poem. He saw When all alone, for many a summer's day, that there was too much leaf for the fruit; but in I wandered through your calm recesses, led cutting off these luxuriances, he sacrificed some of In silence by some powerful band unseen.

the finest blossoms. Posterity has been more just Nor will I e'er forget you ; nor shall e'er

to his fame, by almost wholly disregarding this The graver tasks of manhood, or the advice second copy of his philosophical poem. In his youthOf vulgar wisdom, move me to disclaim

ful aspirations after moral and intellectual great. Those studies which possessed me in the dawn ness and beauty, he seems like Jeremy Taylor in Of life, and fixed the colour of my mind

the pulpit,

an angel newly descended from the For every future year: whence even now

visions of glory.' In advanced years, he is the proFrom sleep I rescue the clear hours of mom, fessor in his robes; still free from stain, but stately, And, while the world around lies overwhelmed

formal, and severe. The blank verse of The PleaIn idle darkness, am alive to thoughts

sures of Imagination’ is free and well-modulated, and Of honourable fame, of truth divine

seems to be distinctively his own. Though apt to Or moral, and of minds to virtue won

run into too long periods, it has more compactness By the sweet magic of harmonious verse.

of structure than Thomson's ordinary composition. The spirit of Milton seems to speak in this strain of Its occasional want of perspicuity probably arises lofty egotism!

from the fineness of his distinctions, and the diffi• The Pleasures of Imagination' is a poem seldom culty attending mental analysis in verse. He might read continuously, though its finer passages, by fre- also wish to avoid all vulgar and common expresquent quotation, particularly in works of criticism sions, and thus err from excessive refinement. A and moral philosophy, are well known. Gray cen- redundancy of ornament undoubtedly, in some passured the mixture of spurious philosophy—the spe sages, takes off from the clearness and prominence culations of Hutcheson and Shaftesbury–which the of his conceptions. His highest fights, howeverwork contains. Plato, Lucretius, and even the papers

as in the allusion to the death of Cæsar, and his by Addison in the Spectator, were also laid under exquisitely-wrought parallel between art and na. contribution by the studious author. He gathered ture—have a flow and energy of expression, with sparks of enthusiasm from kindred minds, but the appropriate imagery, which mark the great poet

. train was in his own. The pleasures which his poem His style is chaste, yet elevated and musical. He professes to treat of, proceed,' he says, ' either from never compromised his dignity, though he blended natural objects, as from a flourishing grove, a clear sweetness with its expression. and murmuring fountain, a calm sea by moonlight, or from works of art, such as a noble edifice, a mu

[Aspirations after the Infinite.] sical tune, a statue, a picture, a poem.' These, with Say, why was man so eminently raised the moral and intellectual objects arising from them, Amid the vast creation; why ordained furnish abundant topics for illustration; but Aken- Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, side dealt chiefly with abstract subjects, pertaining with thoughts beyond the limit of his frame"; more to philosophy than to poetry. He did not But that the Omnipotent might send him forth seek to graft upon them human interests and pas. In sight of mortal and immortal powers, sions. In tracing the final causes of our emotions, As on a boundless theatre, to run he could have described their exercise and effects in The great career of justice; to exalt scenes of ordinary pain or pleasure in the walks His generous aim to all diviner deeds ; of real life. This does not seem, however, to have to chase each partial purpose from his breast; been the purpose of the poet, and hence his work is And through the mists of passion and of sense, deficient in interest. He seldom stoops from the And through the tossing tide of chance and pain, heights of philosophy and classic taste. He con. To hold his course unfaltering, while the voice sidered that physical science improved the charms of Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent nature. Contrary to the feeling of an accomplished Of Nature, calls him to his high reward, living poet, who repudiates these · cold material The applauding smile of Heaven? Else wherefore burns laws,' he viewed the rainbow with additional plea- In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, sure after he had studied the Newtonian theory of That breathes from day to day sublimer things, lights and colours.

And mocks possession! wherefore darts the mind Nor ever yet

With such resistless ardour to embrace The melting rainbow's vernal tinctured hues

Majestic forms; impatient to be free, To me have shone so pleasing, as when first

Spurning the gross control of wilful might; The hand of Science pointed out the path

Proud of the strong contention of her toils; In which the sunbeams gleaming from the west

Proud to be daring? who but rather turns Fall on the watery cloud, whose darksome veil

To Heaven's broad fire his unconstrained view, Involves the orient.

Than to the glimmering of a waxen flame!

Who that, from Alpine heights, his labouring eye Akenside's Hymn to the Naiads has the true classical Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey spirit. He had caught the manner and feeling, the Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave varied pause and harmony, of the Greek poets, with Through mountains, plains, through empires black such felicity, that Lloyd considered his Hymn as with shade, fitted to give a better idea of that form of compo- | And continents of sand, will turn his gaze sition, than could be conveyed by any translation To mark the windings of a scanty rill of Homer or Callimachus. Gray was an equally | That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul

Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing
Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth
And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft
Through fields of air; pursues the flying storm;
Rides on the vollied lightning through the heavens ;
Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern blast,
Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars
The blue profound, and, hovering round the sun,
Beholds him pouring the redundant stream
Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway
Bend the reluctant planets to absolve
The fated rounds of Time. Thence far effused,
She darts her swiftness up the long career
Of devious comets; through its burning signs
Exulting measures the perennial wheel
Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars,
Whose blended light, as with a milky zone,
Invest the orient. Now, amazed she views
The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold,
Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode;
And fields of radiance, whose unfading light
Has travelled the profound six thousand years,
Nor yet arrives in sight of mortal things.
Even on the barriers of the world, untired
She meditates the eternal depth below;
Till half recoiling, down the headlong steep
She plunges; soon o'erwhelmed and swallowed up
Io that immense of being. There her hopes
Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth
Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said,
That not in humble nor in brief delight,
Not in the fading echoes of Renown,
Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap,
The soul should find enjoyment: but from these
Tuming disdainful to an equal good,
Through all the ascent of things enlarge her vicw,
Till every bound at length should disappear,
And infinite perfection close the scene.

Of atoms moving with incessant change
Their elemental round: behold the seeds
Of being, and the energy of life
Kindling the mass with ever-active flame:
Then to the secrets of the working mind
Attentive turn; from dim oblivion call
Her fleet, ideal band ; and bid them, go!
Break

time's barrier, and o'ertake the hour
That saw the heavens created : then declare
If aught were found in those external scenes
To move thy wonder now. For what are all
The forms which brute unconscious matter wears,
Greatness of bulk, or symmetry of parts !
Not reaching to the heart, soon feeble grows
The superficial impulse ; dull their charms,
And satiate soon, and pall the languid eye.
Not so the moral species, nor the powers
Of genius and design: the ambitious mind
There sees herself: by these congenial forms
Touched and awakened, with intenser act
She bends each nerve, and meditates well-pleased
Her features in the mirror. For of all
The inhabitants of earth, to man alone
Creative Wisdom gave to lift his eye
To truth's eternal measures; thence to frame
The sacred laws of action and of will,
Discerning justice from unequal deeds,
And temperance from folly. But beyond
This energy of truth, whose dictates bind
Assenting reason, the benignant Sire,
To deck the honoured paths of just and good,
Has added bright imagination's rays :
Where virtue, rising from the awful depth
Of truth's mysterious bosom, doth forsake
The unadorned condition of her birth;
And, dressed by fancy in ten thousand hues,
Assumes a various feature to attract
With charms responsive to each gazer's eye,
The hearts of men. Amid his rural walk,
The ingenious youth, whoin solitude inspires
With purest wishes, from the pensive shade
Beholds her moving, like a virgin-muse
That wakes her lyre to some indulgent theme
Of harmony and wonder : while among
The herd of servile minds her strenuous forin
Indignant flashes on the patriot's eye,
And through the rolls of memory appeals
To ancient honour, or, in act serene
Yet watchful, raises the majestic sword
Of public power, from dark ambition's reach,
To guard the sacred volume of the laws.

[Intellectual Beauty-Patriotism.] Mind, mind alone (bear witness earth and heaven!) The living fountains in itself contains Of beauteous and sublime: here hand in hand Sit paramount the Graces; here enthroned, Celestial Venus, with divinest airs, Invites the soul to never-fading joy. Look, then, abroad through Nature, to the range Of planets, suns, and adamantine spheres, Wheeling unshaken through the void immense ; And speak, oh man! does this capacious scene With half that kindling majesty dilate Thy strong conception, as when Brutus rose Refulgent from the stroke of Cæsar's fate, Amid the crowd of patriots; and his arm Aloft extending, like eternal Jove When guilt brings down the thunder, called aloud On Tully's name, and shook his crimson steel, And bade the father of his country, hail ! Por lo! the tyrant prostrate on the dust, And Rome again is free! Is aught so fair In all the dewy landscapes of the spring, In the bright eye of Hesper, or the morn, In Nature's fairest forms, is aught so fair As virtuous friendship? as the candid blush Of him who strives with fortune to be just? The graceful tear that streams for others' woes, Or the mild majesty of private life, Where Peace, with ever-blooming olive, crowns The gate; where Honour's liberal hands effuse Unenvied treasures, and the snowy wings Of Innocence and Love protect the scene ? Once more search, undismayed, the dark profound Where nature works in secret ; view the beds Of mineral treasure, and the eternal vault That bounds the hoary ocean ; trace the forms

[Operations of the Mind in the Production of Works

of Imagination.] By these mysterious ties, the busy power Of memory her ideal train preserves Entire; or when they would elude her watch, Reclaims their fleeting footsteps from the waste Of dark oblivion ; thus collecting all The various forms of being, to present Before the curious eye of mimic art Their largest choice: like spring's unfolded blooms Exhaling sweetness, that the skilful bee May taste at will from their selected spoils To work her dulcet food. For not the expanse Of living lakes in summer's noontide calm, Reflects the bordering shade and sun-bright heavens With fairer semblance; not the sculptured gold More faithful keeps the graver's lively trace, Than he whose birth the sister powers of art Propitious viewed, and from his genial star Shed influence to the seeds of fancy kind Than his attempered bosom must preserve The seal of nature. There alone, unchanged Her form remains. The balmy walks of May

was made one of the lords of the treasury. He was Hence, by fond dreams of fancied power amused, afterwards a privy councillor and chancellor of the When most you tyrannise, you're most abused. exchequer, and was elevated to the peerage. He What is your sex's earliest, latest care, died August 22, 1773, aged sixty-four. Lyttelton Your heart's supreme ambition To be fair. was author of a short but excellent treatise on The For this, the toilet every thought employs, Conversion of St Paul, which is still regarded as one Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys: of the subsidiary bulwarks of Christianity. He also For this, hands, lips, and eyes, are put to school, wrote an elaborate History of the Reign of Henry II., And each instructed feature has its rule: to which he brought ample information and a spirit And yet how few have learnt, when this is given, of impartiality and justice. These valuable works, Not to disgrace the partial boon of Heaven! and his patronage of literary men (Fielding, it will How few with all their pride of form can move ! be recollected, dedicated to him his Tom Jones, and How few are lovely, that are made for love! to Thomson he was a firm friend), constitute the Do you, my fair, endeavour to possess chief claim of Lyttelton upon the regard of pos- An elegance of mind, as well as dress ; terity. Gray has praised his Monody on his wife's

Be that your ornament, and know to please death as tender and elegiac; but undoubtedly the By graceful Nature's unaffected ease. finest poetical effusion of Lyttelton is his Prologue Nor make to dangerous wit a vain pretence, to Thomson's Tragedy of Coriolanus. Before this But wisely rest content with modest sense ; play could be brought out, Thomson had paid the For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain, debt of nature, and his premature death was deeply Too strong for feeble woman to sustain: lamented. The tragedy was acted for the benefit of those who claim it more than half have none; of the poet's relations, and when Quin 'spoke the And half of those who have it are undone. prologue by Lyttelton, many of the audience wept Nor think dishonesty a proof of parts:

Be still superior to your sex's arts, at the lines

For you, the plainest is the wisest rule : He loved his friends—forgive this gushing tear: A cunning woman is a knavish fool. Alas! I feel I am no actor here.

Be good yourself, nor think another's shame

Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame. [From the Monody.]

Virtue is amiable, mild, serene;

Without all beauty, and all peace within ; In vain I look around

The honour of a prude is rage and storm, O’er all the well-known ground,

'Tis ugliness in its most frightful form; My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry ;

Fiercely it stands, defying gods and men, Where oft we used to walk,

As fiery monsters guard a giant's den. Where oft in tender talk

Seek to be good, but aim not to be great ; We saw the summer sun go down the sky;

A woman's noblest station is retreat ; Nor by yon fountain's side,

Her fairest virtues fly from public sight, Nor where its waters glide

Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light, Along the valley, can she now be found: In all the wide-stretched prospect's ample bound,

To rougher man Ambition's task resign,

'Tis ours in senates or in courts to shine, No more my mournful eye

To labour for a sunk corrupted state, Can aught of her espy,

Or dare the rage of Envy, and be great ; But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.

One only care your gentle breasts should move, Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns,

The important business of your life is love; Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns,

To this great point direct your constant aim, By your delighted mother's side :

This makes your happiness, and this your fame. Who now your infant steps shall guide ?

Be never cool reserve with passion joined ; Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care

With caution choose! but then be fondly kind. To every virtue would have formed your youth,

The selfish heart, that but by halves is given, And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of truth? Shall find no place in Love's delightful heaven; O loss beyond repair !

Here sweet extremes alone can truly bless :

The virtue of a lover is excess. O wretched father, left alone

A maid unasked may own a well-placed flame; To weep their dire misfortune and thy own!

Not loving first, but loving wrong, is shame. How shall thy weakened mind, oppressed with wo, Contemn the little pride of giving pain, And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,

Nor think that conquest justifies disdain. Perform the duties that you doubly owe,

Short is the period of insulting power; Now she, alas! is gone,

Offended Cupid finds his vengeful hour; From folly and from vice their helpless age to save ! Soon will resume the empire which he gave,

And soon the tyrant shall become the slave. Advice to a Lady.

Blest is the maid, and worthy to be blest,

Whose soul, entire by him she loves possessed, The counsels of a friend, Belinda, hear,

Feels every vanity in fondness lost, Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,

And asks no power but that of pleasing most : Unlike the Aatteries of a lover's pen,

Hers is the bliss, in just return, to prove Such truths as women seldom learn from men.

The honest warmth of undissembled love; Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I show

For her, inconstant man might cease to range, What female vanity might fear to know:

And gratitude forbid desire to change. Some merit's mine to dare to be sincere;

But, lest harsh care the lover's peace destroy, But greater yours sincerity to bear.

And roughly blight the tender buds of joy, Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;

Let Reason teach what Passion fain would hide, Women, like princes, find few real friends:

That Hymen's bands by Prudence should be tied ; All who approach them their own ends pursue ;

Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown, Lovers and ministers are seldom true.

If angry Fortune on their union frown: Hence oft from Reason heedless Beauty strays, Soon will the flattering dream of bliss be o'er, And the most trusted guide the most betrays; And cloyed Imagination cheat no more.

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