Song.

SONG.

DEAR Clara, pray pass this small trouble, And with us contentedly dwell; When the creature within is so noble, How little we think of its cell.

The soul, be it e'er so refin'd, Must live in a cottage of clay; And the Lord of the world was consign'd To lie in a manger on hay.

No place all our wishes supplies, Then the best we can offer pray take; For Fortune is ever so wise, Not to venture us all at a stake.

Then Clara resign to our love, This little of what you may want; And when Fortune such merit shall prove, Your favorite wish she may grant.