Alas! what a folly, that wealth and domain
We heap up in fin and in forrow!
Immenfe is the toil, yet the labour how vain!
Is not life to be over to-morrow?
Then glide on my moments, the few that I have
Smooth-fhaded, and quiet, and even;
While gently the body defcends to the grave,
And the spirit arifes to heaven.
'VE done thy merit and my friendship wrong,
In holding back my gratitude fo long;
The foul is fure to equal transport rais'd,
That juftly praises, or is juftly prais'd:
The generous only can this pleasure know
Who tafte the god-like virtue-to bestow!
I ev'n grow rich, methinks, while I commend ;;
And feel the very praifes which I fend.
Nor jealoufy nor female envy find,
Though all the Mufes are to Dyer kind.
Sing on, nor let your modeft fears retard,
Whofe verfe and pencil join, to force reward:
Your claim demands the bays, in double wreath,
Your Poems lighten, and your pictures breathe.
I wish to praise you, but your beauties wrong;
No theme looks green, in Clio's artless fong:
Among the Poems of Mr. Savage, is an Epiftle, occacafioned by Mr. Dyer's Picture of this Lady: