To Contemplation's fober eye*

Such is the race of Man :

And they that creep and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.

Alike the Bufy and the Gay

But flutter thro' life's little day,

In Fortune's varying colours dreft:

Brush'd by the hand of rough Mifchance,

Or chill'd by age, their airy dance

They leave, in duft to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,

The sportive kind reply:

Poor moralift! and what art thou?

A folitary fly!

Thy

While infects from the threshold preach, &c.

Mr. GREEN, in the Grotto.

Dodfley's Mifcellanies, [Lond. Edit.] Vol. V. p. 161.

Thy Joys no glittering female meets,
No hive haft thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hafty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy fun is fet, thy fpring is gone-
We frolick, while 'tis May.

O DE

ON THE DEATH OF A

FAVOURITE CAT,

Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes: