|• Main||• Contacts|
ingenuous nature should not be checked by the over-cautious maxims of
political prudence. No advantage, obtained by such frigidity, can
compensate for the want of those warm effusions of the heart into the
bosom of a friend, which are doubtless among the most exquisite
pleasures. At the same time, however, it must be owned, that they often
by the inevitable lot of humanity, make way for the bitterest pains
which the breast can experience. Happy beyond the common condition of
her sex, is she who has found a friend indeed; open hearted, yet
discreet; generously fervent, yet steady; thoroughly virtuous, but not
severe; wise, as well as cheerful! Can such a friend be loved too much,
or cherished too tenderly? If to excellence and happiness there be any
one way more compendious than another, next to friendship with the
Supreme Being, it is this.
But when a mixture of minds so beautiful and so sweet takes place, it is
generally, or rather always the result of early prepossession, casual
intercourse, or in short, a combination of such causes as are not to be
brought together by management or design. This noble plant may be
cultivated; but it must grow spontaneously.
ON THE CHOICE OF A HUSBAND.
Assist me, ye Nine,
While the youth I define,
With whom I in wedlock would class;
And ye blooming fair,
Lend a listening ear,
To approve of the man as you pass.
Not the changeable fry
Who love, nor know why,
But follow bedup'd by their passions:
Such votaries as these
Are like waves of the seas,
And steer'd by their own inclinations.
The hectoring blade
How unfit for the maid,
Where meekness and modesty reigns!
Such a blundering bully
I'll speak against truly,
Whatever I get for my pains.
Not the dogmatic elf,
Whose great all is himself,
Whose alone _ipse dixit_ is law:
What a figure he'll make,
How like Momus he'll speak
With sneering burlesque, a pshaw! pshaw!
Not the covetous wretch
Whose heart's at full stretch
To gain an inordinate treasure;
Him leave with the rest,
And such mortals detest,
Who sacrifice life without measure.
The fluttering fop,
How empty his top!
Nay, but some call him coxcomb, I trow;
But 'tis losing your time,
He's not worth half a rhyme,
Let the fag ends of prose bind his brow.
The guttling sot,
What a conduit his throat!
How beastly and vicious his life!
Page 3 from 9: Back 1 2  4 5 6 7 8 9 Forward