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Not that I know that his Reverence was ever concerned, to my know

ledge; Though you and your come-rogues keep him out so late, in your

wicked College. You say, “You will eat grass on his grave!' A Christian eat grass ! Whereby you now confess yourself to be a goose, or an ass. But that 's as much as to say, That my Master should die before ye ! Well! Well! That 's as God pleases ! and I don't believe that 's a true

story! And so say, I told you so ! and you may go tell my Master! What care I! And I don't care who knows it ! 'Tis all one to MARY! Everybody knows that I love to tell truth, and shame the Devil ! I am but a poor servant; but I think Gentlefolks should be civil !

Besides, you found fault with our vittels, one day that you were here; I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all days in the year!

And SAUNDERS, the Man, says, You are always jesting and mocking.

‘Mary,' said he, one day, as I was mending my Master's stocking, “My Master is so fond of that Minister, that keeps the School ! I thought my Master was a wise man; but that man makes him a fool!'

'SAUNDERS,' says I, 'I would rather than a quart of ale, He would come into our kitchen; and I would pin a dish-clout to his

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tail !'

And now, I must go, and get SAUNDERS to direct this letter !
For I write but a sad scrawl! but my sister MARGET, she writes better.
Well ! but I must run, and make the bed, before my Master comes from

Prayers.
And see now, it strikes ten! and I hear him coming upstairs.

Whereof I could say more to your Verses, if I could write written hand: And so I remain, in a civil way, Your servant to command,

MARY.

A SONG FOR THE LUTE.

GENTLY, my Lute! move ev'ry string!

Soft as my sighs, reveal my pain ! While I, in plaintive Numbers sing

Of slighted vows, and cold disdain.

In vain, her Airs ! in vain, her art !

In vain, she frowns when I appear! Thy notes shall melt her frozen heart!

She cannot hate, if She can hear !

And see, She smiles! Through all the groves

Triumphant Peans sound!
Clap all your wings, ye little Loves !

Ye sportive Graces, dance around!

Ye list’ning oaks, bend to my Song!

Not Orpheus played a nobler Lay! Ye savages, about me throng!

Ye rocks, and harder hearts, obey!

She comes! She comes! relenting Fair!

To fill with joy my longing arms. What faithful Lover can despair,

Who thus with Verse and Music charms!

A HUNTING SONG.

BEHOLD, my friend! the rosy-fingered Morn,

With blushes on her face,

Peeps o'er yon azure hill !
Rich gems, the trees enchase!

Pearls from each bush distil !
Arise! Arise ! and hail the light new-born!

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Hark! Hark! The merry horn calls, Come away!'

Quit, quit thy downy bed!

Break from AMYNTA's arms !
O, let it ne'er be said

That all, that all her charms (Though she 's as Venus fair !) can tempt thy stay!

Perplex thy soul no more with cares below!

For what will pelf avail ?

Thy courser paws the ground,
Each beagle cocks his tail,

They spend their months around;
While health and pleasure smile on every brow !

Try, Huntsmen ! all the brakes! spread all the plain!

Now, now, she 's gone away!

Strip! Strip! with speed pursue !
The jocund God of Day,

Who fain our sport would view,
See! See! he flogs his fiery steeds in vain !

Pour down, like a flood from the hills, brave Boys !

On the wings of the wind,

The merry beagles fly!
Dull Sorrow lags behind !

Ye shrill echoes, reply!
Catch each flying sound; and double our joys !

Ye rocks, woods, and caves, our music repeat !

The bright Spheres thus above,

A gay refulgent Train,
Harmoniously move,

O'er yon celestial plain,
Like us, whirl along in concert so sweet!

Now Puss threads the brakes, and heavily flies !

At the head of the pack

Old Fidler bears the bell !
Every foil he hunts back,

And aloud rings her knell ;
Till forced into view, she pants, and she dies !

In Life's dull round, thus we toil and we sweat!

Diseases, Grief, and Pain,

An implacable crew,
While we double in vain,

Unrelenting pursue;
Till, quite hunted down, we yield with regret.

This moment is ours! Come, live while ye may !

What 's decreed by dark Fate

Is not in our own power !
Since To-morrow 's too late,

Take the present kind hour!
With Wine cheer the night ; as Sports bless the day!

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