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- LONG-EXPECTED one and twenty
- Ling'ring year at last has flown,
- Pomp and pleasure, pride and plenty
- Great Sir John, are all your own.
- Loosen'd from the minor's tether,
- Free to mortgage or to sell,
- Wild as wind, and light as feather
- Bid the slaves of thrift farewell.
- Call the Bettys, Kates, and Jenneys
- Ev'ry name that laughs at care,
- Lavish of your Grandsire's guineas,
- Show the spirit of an heir.
- All that prey on vice and folly
- Joy to see their quarry fly,
- Here the gamester light and jolly
- There the lender grave and sly.
- Wealth, Sir John, was made to wander,
- Let it wander as it will;
- See the jocky, see the pander,
- Bid them come, and take their fill.
- When the bonny blade carouses,
- Pockets full, and spirits high,
- What are acres? What are houses?
- Only dirt, or wet or dry.
- If the Guardian or the Mother
- Tell the woes of willful waste,
- Scorn their counsel and their pother,
- You can hang or drown at last.
- Samuel Johnson
- CONDEMN'D to hope's delusive mine,
- As on we toil from day to day,
- By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
- Our social comforts drop away.
- Well tried through many a varying year,
- See Levet to the grave descend;
- Officious, innocent, sincere,
- Of ev'ry friendless name the friend.
- Yet still he fills affection's eye,
- Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
- Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny
- Thy praise to merit unrefin'd.
- When fainting nature call'd for aid,
- And hov'ring death prepar'd the blow,
- His vig'rous remedy display'd
- The power of art without the show.
- In misery's darkest caverns known,
- His useful care was ever nigh,
- Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,
- And lonely want retir'd to die.
- No summons mock'd by chill delay,
- No petty gain disdain'd by pride,
- The modest wants of ev'ry day
- The toil of ev'ry day supplied.
- His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
- Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
- And sure th' Eternal Master found
- The single talent well-employ'd.
- The busy day, the peaceful night,
- Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;
- His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
- Tho' now his eightieth year was nigh.
- Then with no throbbing fiery pain,
- No cold gradations of decay,
- Death broke at once the vital chain,
- And free'd his soul the nearest way.
- Samuel Johnson
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