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his delight is to hear and ſpeak of himſelf all the day long.
He ſwalloweth, with greedineſs, his own praiſe, and the flatterer in return eateth him up.
EPILOGUE.
As 'tis the cuſtom of play actors,
To thank their friends and benefactors,
In epilogues compos'd in verſe,
Which they like apes, do but rehearſe;
So 'tis preacher's duty more,
To with his hearers trace and glore.
I too, return my thanks ſincere,
To ev'ry individual here.
May Modeſtly, that princely grace,
Embelliſh ev'ry human face:
And may a modeſt lady fair,
Propition fall to each man's ſhare,
To be the comfort of his life,
A loving mother, and a wife.
TO A FRIEND.
In this ſtrange world, my friend, we often hear,
How few can boaſt of happineſs ſincere;
That precious gem, in diſtant regions lies,
And ſcarce with rays reflected ſtrike our eyes.
Eluded, baffl'd, harraſſ'd in our courſe,
We urge our destiny from bad to worſe;
And thro' life's tempeſt toſs'd from wave to wave,
Explore a quarry till we find a grave.
The kind of aſylum of the fool and wiſe,
Where each fond hope in mix'd abortion lies.
When ſhall this reſtleſs, ſentient frame of mine,
In thy maternal breaſt its grief reſign?
When ſhall profeſſing friends inſidious foes.
