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allowed to bear my feeble testimony to your temperate use of this charming faculty, so delightful in itself, but which can only be safely trusted in such hands as yours, where it is guarded by politeness, and directed by humanity.

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FLORIO.

PART I.

FLORIO, a youth of gay renown,
Who figur'd much about the town,
Had pass'd, with general approbation,
The modish forms of education;
Knew what was proper to be known,
Th' establish'd jargon of bon-ton;
Had learnt, with very moderate reading,
The whole new system of good breeding ·
He studied to be cold and rude,
Though native feeling would intrude:
Unlucky sense and sympathy,
Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be.
For Florio was not meant by nature,
A silly or a worthless creature:

He had a heart disposed to feel,
Had life and spirit, taste and zeal;
Was handsome, generous; but, by fate
Predestin'd to a large estate!

Hence, all that grac'd his op'ning days, Was marr'd by pleasure, spoilt by praise

The Destiny, who wove the thread
Of Florio's being, sigh'd and said,
"Poor youth! this cumbrous twist of gold
More than my shuttle well can hold,
For which thy anxious fathers toil'd,
Thy white and even thread has spoil'd
'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth
From sense, simplicity, and truth;
Thy erring fire, by wealth misled,
Shall scatter pleasures round thy head,
When wholesome discipline's control,
Should brace the sinews of thy soul;
Coldly thou❜lt toil for learning's prize,
For why should he that's rich be wise?"
The gracious Master of mankind,
Who knew us vain, corrupt, and blind,
In mercy, though in anger said,
That man should earn his daily bread :
His lot inaction renders worse,
While labour mitigates the curse.
The idle, life's worst burdens bear,
And meet, what toil escapes, despair!
Forgive, nor lay the fault on me,
This mixture of mythology;
The muse of Paradise has deign'd
With truth to mingle fables feign'd;
And though the bard who would attain
The glories, Milton, of thy strain,
Will never reach thy style or thoughts
He may be like thee-in thy faults,
Exhausted Florio, at the age

When youth should rush on glory's stage ;
When life should open fresh and new,
And ardent hope her schemes pursue;
Of youthful gaiety bereft,

Had scarce an unbroached pleasure left ;
He found already to his cost,

The shining gloss of life was lost;

And pleasure was so coy a prude,
She fled the more, the more pursued ;
Or if, o'ertaken and caress'd,

He loath'd and left her when possess'd.
But Florio knew the world; that science
Sets sense and learning at defiance;
He thought the world to him was known,
Whereas he only knew the Town:
In men this blunder still you find,
All think their little set-Mankind.

Though high renown the youth had gained,
No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd;
No tool of falsehood, slave of passion,
But spoilt by CUSTOM, and the FASHION.
Though known among a certain set,
He did not like to be in debt;

He shudder'd at the dicer's box,
Nor thought it very heterodox

That tradesmen should be sometimes paid,
And bargains kept as well as made.
His growing credit, as a sinner,
Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner;
Made pleasure and made business wait,
And still, by system, came too late;
Yet 'twas a hopeful indication,
On which to found a reputation :
Small habits, well pursued betimes,
May reach the dignity of crimes;
And who a juster claim preferr'd,
Than one who always broke his word?

His mornings were not spent in vice,
'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice;
Walk up and down St. James's-Street,
Full fifty times the youth you'd meet;
He hated cards, detested drinking,
But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking;
'Twas doing nothing was his curse,
Is there a vice can plague us worse?

The Destiny, who wove the thread
Of Florio's being, sigh'd and said,
"Poor youth! this cumbrous twist of gold
More than my shuttle well can hold,
For which thy anxious fathers toil'd,
Thy white and even thread has spoil'd
'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth
From sense, simplicity, and truth;
Thy erring fire, by wealth misled,
Shall scatter pleasures round thy head,
When wholesome discipline's control,
Should brace the sinews of thy soul;
Coldly thou'lt toil for learning's prize,
For why should he that's rich be wise?"
The gracious Master of mankind,
Who knew us vain, corrupt, and blind,
In mercy, though in anger said,
That man should earn his daily bread:
His lot inaction renders worse,
While labour mitigates the curse.
The idle, life's worst burdens bear,
And meet, what toil escapes, despair!
Forgive, nor lay the fault on me,
This mixture of mythology;
The muse of Paradise has deign'd
With truth to mingle fables feign'd;
And though the bard who would attain
The glories, Milton, of thy strain,
Will never reach thy style or thoughts
He may be like thee-in thy faults,
Exhausted Florio, at the age

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