LETTER
to
a
FRIEND
on
leaving
TOWN
.
Gladly
I
leave
the
town
,
and
all
its
care
,
For
sweet
retirement
,
and
fresh
wholsome
air
,
Leave
op'ra
,
park
,
the
masquerade
,
and
play
,
In
solitary
groves
to
pass
the
day
.
Adieu
,
gay
throng
,
luxurious
vain
parade
,
Sweet
peace
invites
me
to
the
rural
shade
,
No
more
the
Mall
,
can
captivate
my
heart
,
No
more
can
Ranelagh
,
one
joy
impart
.
Without
regret
I
leave
the
splendid
ball
,
And
the
inchanting
shades
of
gay
Vauxhall
,
Far
from
the
giddy
circle
now
I
fly
,
Such
joys
no
more
,
can
please
my
sicken'd
eye
.
The
town's
alluring
scenes
no
more
can
charm
,
Nor
dissipation
my
fond
breast
alarm
;
Where
vice
and
folly
has
each
bosom
fir'd
,
And
what
is
most
absurd
,
—
is
most
admir'd
.
Alas
!
what
diff'rence
'twixt
the
town
bred
fair
,
And
the
blith
maid
who
breaths
the
purer
air
.
Whose
life
is
innocent
,
whose
thoughts
are
clear
,
Whose
soul
is
gentle
,
and
whose
heart
sincere
.
Bless'd
with
her
swain
,
she
wants
no
greater
joy
,
Nor
fears
inconstancy
,
her
bliss
can
cloy
,
No
anxious
fears
invade
her
tranquil
breast
,
The
peaceful
mansion
of
content
and
rest
.
But
rich
in
every
virtue
,
void
of
art
,
She
feels
those
joys
,
truth
only
can
impart
.
View
the
gay
courtly
dame
,
and
mark
her
face
,
Where
art
supply's
fair
nature's
nobler
place
,
Luxurious
pleasures
,
all
her
days
divide
,
And
fashion
taints
,
bright
beauty's
greatest
pride
.
Each
action
has
its
fixt
and
settled
rule
,
Eyes
,
limbs
,
and
features
,
are
all
put
to
school
.
Beaux
without
number
,
daily
round
her
swarm
,
And
each
with
fulsome
flatt'ry
try's
to
charm
.
Till
,
like
the
rose
,
which
blooms
but
for
an
hour
,
Her
face
grown
common
,
loses
all
its
power
.
Each
idle
coxcomb
leaves
the
wretched
fair
,
Alone
to
languish
,
and
alone
despair
,
To
cards
,
and
dice
,
the
slighted
maiden
flies
,
And
every
fashionable
vice
apply's
,
Scandal
and
coffee
,
pass
the
morn
away
,
At
night
a
rout
,
an
opera
,
or
a
play
;
Thus
glide
their
life
,
partly
through
inclination
,
Yet
more
,
because
it
is
the
reigning
fashion
.
Thus
giddy
pleasures
they
alone
pursue
,
Merely
because
,
they've
nothing
else
to
do
;
Whatever
can
afford
their
hearts
delight
,
No
matter
if
the
thing
be
wrong
,
or
right
;
They
will
pursue
it
,
tho'
they
be
undone
,
They
see
their
ruin
,
—
still
they
venture
on
.
Prudence
they
hate
,
grave
wisdom
they
despise
,
And
laugh
at
those
who
teach
them
to
be
wise
.
Pleas'd
they
embark
upon
the
dangerous
tide
,
And
with
the
fashionable
current
glide
;
Till
fate
has
every
wish
and
purpose
cross'd
,
Their
health
,
their
beauty
,
and
their
fortune
loss'd
:
No
art
their
wanted
youth
can
then
repair
,
Abandon'd
to
remorse
,
and
keen
despair
,
Repentant
sighs
,
their
wretched
bosom
wound
,
And
happiness
,
alas
!
no
more
is
found
.
In
some
sequester'd
shade
alone
they
stray
,
And
pensive
waste
,
the
solitary
day
.
Till
fate
relieves
the
wretched
maid
from
grief
,
And
death
affords
,
a
long
and
last
relief
.
These
are
the
follies
that
engage
the
mind
,
And
taint
the
principles
,
of
half
mankind
,
Then
wonder
not
my
friend
,
that
I
can
leave
,
Those
transcient
pleasures
,
only
born
to
grieve
.
Those
short-liv'd
shadows
of
a
fleeting
day
,
Those
idle
customs
of
the
rich
and
gay
.
Henceforth
,
retirement
,
is
my
chosen
seat
,
Far
from
the
insolent
,
the
vain
,
the
great
.
Sweet
solitude
,
ah
!
welcome
to
my
breast
,
And
with
thee
welcome
,
sweet
content
,
and
rest
;
Farewell
ambition
,
source
of
every
pain
,
Farewell
pale
malice
,
and
thy
hateful
train
:
Farewell
black
calumny
,
no
more
thy
dart
,
Shall
force
one
sigh
,
or
wound
my
placid
heart
.
My
future
days
,
shall
with
sweet
peace
abound
,
By
friendship
,
virtue
,
and
experience
crown'd
.