"May she," I said, "life's choicest goods partake; Those, late in life, for nobler still forsake-- The bliss of one, th' esteem'd of many live, With all that Friendship would, and all that Love can give!" TIME. London, February, 1780. "The clock struck one! we take no thought of Time," Wrapt up in Night, and meditating rhyme. All big with vision, we despise the powers That vulgar beings link to days and hours-- Those vile, mechanic things that rule our hearts, And cut our lives in momentary parts. That speech of Time was Wisdom's gift, said Young. Ah, Doctor! better, Time would hold his tongue: What serves the clock? "To warn the careless crew, How much in little space they have to do; 10 To bid the busy world resign their breath, And beat each moment a soft call for death-- To give it, then, a tongue, was wise in man." Support the assertion, Doctor, if you can. It tells the ruffian when his comrades wait; It calls the duns to crowd my hapless gate; It tells my heart the paralysing tale Of hours to come, when Misery must prevail. THE CHOICE. London, February, 1780. What vulgar title thus salutes the eye, The schoolboy's first attempt at poesy? The long-worn theme of every humbler Muse, For wits to scorn and nurses to peruse; The dull description of a scribbler's brain, And sigh'd-for wealth, for which he sighs in vain; A glowing chart of fairy-land estate, Romantic scenes, and visions out of date, Clear skies, clear streams, soft banks, and sober bowers, Deer, whimpering brooks, and wind-perfuming flowers? 10