But to the beggar and the king,

Clean linen's a reviving thing;

Yet these our plagues don't reach :
The beggar ftrips with jocund morn,
In fome quick ftream, and on the thorn
Spreads out his rags to bleach.

The king, great man, fends all his out,
Not caring for a fingle clout :

But what's more happy ftill,
He's not oblig'd to count the rags,
Nor ftuff 'em into canvafs bags;
Oh! no-nor write the bill.

But Lord have mercy on us all!
Whene'er we wafh, all hands must fall
To fomething or another:

For Madam fcolds, and flies about;

Now up, now down, now in, now out,
Dabbing thro' wet and smother.

This curfed time all comfort flies,

At fix fhe starts, Come, Ned! come, rife!

And get the lines hung out!'

Yes, to be fure, my dear!' I cry:

Breakfast is got, and whipp'd away, (Because the washers want their tea)

Before that I've half done :

The doors all open, linen fpread;

The sky looks black- Come hither, Ned, • Shall we have rain or fun?'

My dear, you need not be in pain,
It does not look, I think, like rain.'
O! then we'll hang out more.'
When, lo! the words have hardly pafs'd,
But puff there comes a heavy blast,
And all must be rins'd o'er.

Then ten-fold comes the peal on me:
• You ass, to be ten years at sea;
See, fee the linen, do!'-

Ifneak away, to have a smile,
Snug, while I hear her all the while
Calling me black and blue.

From fuch unlucky ftorms of rain,
Nothing with me goes well again,
The dinner comes-and cold:

The meat,' I cry, of foap-fuds twangs!
Up Madam gets, the door fhe bangs,
And re-begins to fcold.

But what ftill troubles more my mind,
Amidft fuch griefs at once to find
The washer, as the wrings,
Cracking fome jeft; then o'er the tub
Paufes a while, and ev'ry rub

With pleasure fweats and fings.

I hate, I must confefs, all dirt,
And truly love a well-wafh'd fhirt;

Yet once a month this reek

Is more than any one can bear:
But him I hate-pray make his share
A washing ev'ry week.

HYMN

HYMN TO PROSPERITY.

BY MISS SALLY CARTER.

Cile'er thy beam divine

NELESTIAL maid, receive this pray'r!

If

Should gild the brow of toiling Care,

And bless a hut like mine:

MEDITATION.

AN ELEGY.

BY HUGH KELLY, ESQ.

WRAPP'D in the fhade where Meditation lies,

And holds a mental intercourfe above;

Come, Truth, and teach a bofom to be wife,
Which mourn'd too long for disappointed love.

What art thou-wond'rous impulfe of defire,
Which blooming Hope so pleasingly has drefs'd?
Or whence proceeds th' involuntary fire,
Which burns fo fiercely in the human breaft?

Sweet inconfiftent offspring of the sky,
The latent cause in tenderness declare;
Nor force the heart eternally to figh,
And yet conceal the motive of despair.

If Mira's face in ev'ry charm is drefs'd,
Why am I doom'd inceffantly to pine?
Or fhall the coldness of another's breast,
Create a sharp anxiety in mine?

Alas! fince being fmil'd upon the morn,
And Nature faw how excellent it rofe;
Thy race, O man, to mifery was born,
And doom'd to bear probationary woes.

Too eafy Nature, indolently kind,

From Fate's fevere restrictions to depart, Gave man a paffive tenderness of mind,

And beauty's fole dominion o'er the heart.

But

But yet the pang of never-hoping love,

To time's last moment deftin'd to conceal; Is not the only forrow we must prove,

The only forrow we are doom'd to feel.

A latent train of hydra-headed woes,
From life each dearer benefit has stole;
Destroy'd the smallest glimmer of repose,
And damp'd the choicest bleffings of the foul.

Perhaps, e'en now, fome high diftinguifh'd name,
Rais'd up to grandeur, and enrich'd by place,
Starts from fome new imaginary shame,
Or only flumbers to a fresh disgrace.

Perhaps, now tortur'd on imperial down,
Some scepter'd mourner languishes his hour;
And finks beneath the burden of a crown,

The flave of greatnefs, and the wretch of pow'r

Some ill-ftarr'd youth, whofe melancholy moan
As vainly founded in unpitying ears,

Now weeps, perhaps, in bitterness alone,
And gives a lavish freedom to his tears:

Science, which left him polish'd and refin'd,
Has giv'n a new occafion to complain;
And knowledge only has enlarg'd his mind,
To make it more fufceptible of pain.

No hand, alas! it's kind affiftance lends,

To drive misfortune from his lowly door;

For when, O when, did wretchedness make friends!
Or who will feek acquaintance with the poor!