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John Trusler

"The snares are set, the plot is laid,
Ruin awaits thee,—hapless maid!
Seduction sly assails thine ear,
And gloating, foul desire is near;
Baneful and blighting are their smiles,
Destruction waits upon their wiles;
Alas! thy guardian angel sleeps,
One sultry Sunday, when no cooling breeze
Was borne on zephyr's wing, to fan the trees;
One sultry Sunday, when the torrid ray
O'er nature beam'd intolerable day;
When raging Sirius warn'd us not to roam,
And Galen's sons prescrib'd cool draughts at home;
One sultry Sunday, near those fields of fame

"Thou shalt do no unrighteousness in judgment." Leviticus, chap. xix. verse 15.

"The wicked is snared in the work of his own hands." Psalms, chap. ix. verse 16.

Of all the follies in human life, there is none greater than that of extravagance, or profuseness; it being constant labour, without the least ease or relaxation.

"Ah! why so vain, though blooming in thy spring,
Thou shining, frail, adorn'd, but wretched thing
Old age will come; disease may come before,
And twenty prove as fatal as threescore!"
Now burst the blazing bonfires on the sight,
Through the wide air their corruscations play;
The windows beam with artificial light,
And all the region emulates the day.
The moping mason, from yon tavern led,
In mystic words doth to the moon complain
That unsound port distracts his aching head,

"When fear cometh as desolation, and their destruction cometh as a whirlwind; when distress cometh upon them, then shall they call upon God, but he will not answer." Proverbs, chapter i. verse 7, 8.

Oh, vanity of age untoward!
Ever spleeny, ever froward!
Why these bolts and massy chains,
Squint suspicions, jealous pains?
Why, thy toilsome journey o'er,
Lay'st thou up an useless store?
Hope, along with Time is flown;
"Reproach, scorn, infamy, and hate,
On all thy future steps shall wait;
Thy furor be loath'd by every eye,
And every foot thy presence fly."
————————Let the picture rust,
Perhaps Time's price-enhancing dust,—
As statues moulder into earth,
When I'm no more, may mark its worth;
And future connoisseurs may rise,
Honest as ours, and full as wise,
To puff the piece, and painter too,
And make me then what Guido's now.
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