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Brutus for absent Portia fighs,
And burn for ever one;
Productive as the Sun.
What various joys on one attend,
Whether his hoary fire he spies,
What home-felt raptures move?
With rev'rence, hope, and love.
Fires that scorch, yet dare not shine :
Sacred Hymen! these are thine.
Ó D E
ODE ON SOLITUDE.:
Appy the man whose wish and
A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground;
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire,
Bleft, who can unconcern’dly find,
Hours, days and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixt; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please,
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
Thus unlamented let me die,
Tell where I lie.
The Dying Christian to his Soul.
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame :
Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life.
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath?
With sounds seraphic ring :
O Death! where is thy Sting?