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6 Sweetner of life, and solder of society; I owe thee much. Thou hast deserv'd from me, Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I prov'd the labours of thy love, And the warm efforts of the gentle heart, Anxious to please.—Oh! when my friend and I In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on, Hid from the vulgar eye; and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip cover'd bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors thro' the underwood, Sweet-murmuring: Methought the shrill-tongu'd Thrush Mended his song of love; the sooty Black-bird Mellow'd his pipe, and softn'd ev'ry note: The Eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the Rose Assum'd a dye more deep; whilst ev'ry flower Vy'd with its fellow-plant in luxury Of dress.—Oh! then, the longest summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste: still the full heart Had not imparted half: 'Twas happiness Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed Not to return, low painful the remembrance!

Dull Grave.—thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood, Strik'st out the dimple from the check of Mirth, And ev'ry smirking feature from the face; Branding our laughter with the name of madness. Where are the jesters now? the men of health, Complexionally pleasant? Where the Droll, Whose ev'ry look and gesture was a joke To clapping theatres and shouting crondscrouds [sic], And made even thick-lip'd musing melancholy To gather up her face into a smile Before she was aware! Ah! sullen now, And dumb, as the green turf chat covers them.