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And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me, And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold inarble, where no mention Of'me must more be heard: say then, I taught thee; Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory, And sounded all the depths and.shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of this wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Cromwell, I charge thee, throw away ambition; By that sin fell the angels; how can man then (The image of his Maker) hope to win by it? Love thyselflast;cherish those hearts that wait thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's: then if thou fall'st, O

Cromwell! Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king :: And, pr'ythee, lead me inThere take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I now dare call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, He would not in my age
Have left me naked to mine eneinies.

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But all our praises why should lords engross? ?
Rise, honest muse! and sing the man of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Nor to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose scais the weary traveller repose?

4

Who feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate?
Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise?
The Man of Ross, each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread !
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans, blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is
any

sick? The Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the med'cine takes and gives. Is there a variance? Enter but his door, Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.. Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, And vile attornies, now an useless race. “ Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue “ What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do. . " O what sums that gen’rous hand supply? • What mines to swell that boundless charity?" Of debts and taxes, wife or children clear, This man possessid--five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush; proud courts, withdraw:

say,

your blaze:

Ye little stars! hide

your
diminish'd

rays.
“ And what! No monument, inscription,stone?

his form, his name almost unknown?” Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.'.

c. His race,

ON

PROVIDENCE.

GOD works in a mysterious way,

His wonders to perform:
He plants his footsteps in the sea,

And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,

And works his sov'reign will.
Ye feeble saints, fresh courage take:

The clouds ye so much dread, Are big with mercy, and shall break

In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his

grace; Behind a frowning Providence

He hides a smiling face.
His purposes are rip’ning fast,

Unfolding every hour:
The bud may have a bitter taste,

But wait to smell the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his work in vain;
God is his own Interpreter,

And he shall make it plain.

ON THE WORDS,

If thou knewest who it is," &c.

AT Jacob's well a stranger sought

His ardent thirst to clear; Samaria's daughter little thought

The Font of LIFE so ncar: This had she known, her panting mind

For LIVING DRAUGHTS had sigh’d; Nor had Messiah, ever kind,

Those living draughts deny'd. And Jacob's Well (no glass so true)

Britannia's image shows;
Messiah travels Britain through,

But who the Stranger knows?
Yet Britain must the Stranger know,

Or soon her loss deplore:
Behold the living waters flow;

Come drink, and thirst no more!

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