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ON ANGLING. |
12'6 |
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No home-bred jars at eve to find,
All smile at his return ; A prudent wife to meet him kind,
Intent his will to learn. Not so the wanton rake of state, He flees his home and slights his mate, 'Till both with hatred burn.
The bee that sips the vernal flow'rs,
And bears their sweets away, Instructs him to improve his hours,
Against a rainy day ; The ant that toils the autumn through.
To store her distant hill ; Inspires his thought with projects new,
To ward off* distant ill. The spenthrift no such prudence learns, But squanders all his pareDt earns,
By prudence, care, and skill.
Sweet Philomel, who, all day long,
Can harmonise the spray, Instructs him to improve his song,
And siug life 's cares away ; The lark that mount to heav'ns high gate.
His pleasing tale impart; Until we meet the stroke of fate,
Go wear a cheerful heart; |
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