Oh thou! whose ever partial ear
Whate'er I write consents to hear,
Say what doth now thy thoughts engage?
The poet's, or historian's page?
Or doth thy comic pencil true,5
Exceed what Bunbury can do, 
And by its ever charming power
Shew us the follies of the hour?
Or, wandring o'er the peaceful mead,
Dost thou thy vacant morning lead,10
Thro' those sweet woods, o'er that green sod
Which we so oft together trod?
There, while indulging graver thought,
Oh let thy friend be ne'er forgot;
For, in those hours of seeming rest,15
The active inmate of thy breast
Then most employ'd, then farthest flies
And brings the absent to thine eyes --
If bounteous Heav'n hath given to thee
A soul from furious passion free,20
A lovely form, a cheerful mind,
A ready wit and taste refind,
Fair culture hath adorn'd thy breast
And all thy native genius drest;
The anxious Mother's utmost prayer25
Can scarce exceed a lot so fair,
Thus blest with health, and easy grace,
Which mind can give the speaking face
While sprung from no ignoble line
Thy talents may conspicuous shine,30
Whom Fortune o'er the vulgar lifts,
Not wanting even her golden gifts,
And, what above them all I prize,
The art to enjoy, so rare, so wise!
Amid a world, where cares surround,35
And idle hopes, and fears abound,
Oh! let us pass our hours serene,
Free from desires, and free from spleen!
Enjoy the present, happy still,
Nor tremble at some latent ill;40
Tho' clouds obscure to-morrows sky
Yet shall the passing tempest fly,
Or we, from life already past,
Be shelter'd from the angry blast,
Then why to-day's bright beam deform,45
Thro' fear of some expected storm
Or pining o'er some absent joy
Thy present peace secure, destroy?
'Tis thus my friend I wish to live,
The tyrant Care I thus deceive;50
I scarcely hope, my fears are few,
And peace alone my views pursue.
Say canst thou too content embrace
A life with such a placid face
Or smiling on thy humbler friend,55
Sometimes with her thy soul unbend
When free thy breast from vain alarms,
And Hope itself but calmly charms.