5 Still shall each kind returning season Sufficient for our wishes give; For we will live a life of reason, And that's the only life to live. 6 Through youth and age, in love excelling, We'll hand in hand together tread; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. 7 How should I love the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly clung! To see them look their mother's features, To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! 8 And when with envy Time transported, Shall think to rob us of our joys; You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys. RICHARD BENTLEY'S SOLE POETICAL COMPOSITION. 1 Who strives to mount Parnassus' hill, And thence poetic laurels bring, Must first acquire due force and skill, Must fly with swan's or eagle's wing. 2 Who Nature's treasures would explore, Her mysteries and arcana know, Must high as lofty Newton soar, Must stoop as delving Woodward low. 3 Who studies ancient laws and rites, Tongues, arts, and arms, and history; Must drudge, like Selden, days and nights, And in the endless labour die. 4 Who travels in religious jars, (Truth mixed with error, shades with rays,) Like Whiston, wanting pyx or stars, In ocean wide or sinks or strays. 5 But grant our hero's hope, long toil And comprehensive genius crown, All sciences, all arts his spoil, Yet what reward, or what renown? 6 Envy, innate in vulgar souls, Envy steps in and stops his rise; Envy with poisoned tarnish fouls His lustre, and his worth decries. 7 He lives inglorious or in want, To college and old books confined: Instead of learned, he's called pedant; Dunces advanced, he's left behind: Yet left content, a genuine Stoic he, Great without patron, rich without South Sea. LINES ADDRESSED TO POPE.[1] 1 While malice, Pope, denies thy page Its own celestial fire; While critics and while bards in rage Admiring, won't admire: 2 While wayward pens thy worth assail, And envious tongues decry; These times, though many a friend bewail, These times bewail not I. 3 But when the world's loud praise is thine, And spleen no more shall blame; When with thy Homer thou shalt shine In one unclouded fame: 4 When none shall rail, and every lay Devote a wreath to thee; That day (for come it will) that day Shall I lament to see. [1] Written by one Lewis, a schoolmaster, and highly commended by Johnson.--_See_ Boswell. THE END. INDEX