As if, like Objects preffing on the Sight,

Death had advanc'd too near us to be feen :

Or, that Life's Loan Time ripen'd into Right;

And Men might plead Prescription from the Grave; Deathless, from Repetition of Reprieve.

Deathlefs? far from it! fuch are Dead already; Their Hearts are buried, and the World their Grave.

Tell me fome God! my Guardian Angel! tell, What thus infatuates? what Inchantment plants The Phantom of an Age, 'twixt us and Death, Already at the Door? He knocks, we hear him, And yet we will not hear. What Mail defends Our untouch'd Hearts? what Miracle turns off The pointedThought, which from a Thousand Quivers Is daily darted, and is daily fhunn'd?

We ftand, as in a Battle, Throngs on Throngs
Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves;

Tho' bleeding with our Wounds, Immortal still!

We

We see Time's furrows on another's Brow,
And Death intrench'd, preparing his Affault;

How few themselves, in that juft Mirror, fee?
Or feeing, draw their Inference as strong?
There Death is certain; doubtful Here; He must,
And foon; we may, within an Age, expire.
Though grey our Heads, our Thoughts and Aims are
Like damag'd Clocks, whofe Hand and Bell diffent,
Folly fings Six, while Nature points at Twelve.

green;

Abfurd Longevity! more, more, It cries: More Life, moreWealth, more Trash of ev'ry Kind. And wherefore Mad for more, when Relish fails? Object, and Appetite, must club for Joy; Shall Folly labour hard to mend the Bow,

Baubles, I mean, that strike us from without,

While Nature is relaxing ev'ry String?

Ask Thought for Joy; grow rich and hoard within.

Think you

the Soul, when this Life's Rattles cease,

Has nothing of more Manly to fucceed?

Contract the Tafte immortal; learn even Now
To relish what alone fubfifts hereafter.

Divine, or none, henceforth your Joys for ever.
Of Age, the Glory is to wish to die,

That Wish is Praise and Promife; It applauds
Paft Life, and promises our future Bliss.

What Weakness fee not Children in their Sires?

Grand-climacterical Abfurdities!

Grey-hair'd Authority to Faults of Youth,
How fhocking? It makes Folly thrice a Fool;
And our first Childhood might our last despise.
Peace and Esteem is all that Age can Hope.
Nothing but Wisdom gives the firft; the last,
Nothing, but the Repute of being Wife.
Folly bars both; our Age is quite undone.

What Folly can be ranker? like our Shadows,

Our Wishes lengthen, as our Sun declines.

No

No Wifh fhould loiter, then, this fide the Grave.

Our Hearts should leave the World, before the Knell

Calls for our Carcaffes to mend the Soil.

Enough to live in Tempeft, Die in Port
Age fhould fly Concourfe, cover in Retreat
Defects of Judgement; and the Will's subdue
Walk thoughtful on the filent, folemn Shore,
Of that vaft Ocean It must fail fo foon;
And put Good-works on Board; and wait the Wind
That fhortly blows us into Worlds unknown ;
If unconfider'd too, a Dreadful Scene!

All should be Prophets to themselves, foresee Their future Fate; their future Fate foretafte ; This Art would waste the Bitterness of Death. The Thought of Death alone, the Fear deftroys, A Difaffection to that pretious Thought

Is more than Midnight Darkness on the Soul,

Which

Which fleeps beneath it, on a Precipice,
Puff'd off by the first Blast, and lost for ever.

Doft afk Lorenzo, why fo warmly preft, By Repetition hammer'd on thine Ear, The Thought of Death? That Thought is the Ma

chine,

The grand Machine! that heaves us from the Duft,
And rears us into Men. The Thought ply'd Home
Will foon reduce the ghastly Precipice

O'er hanging Hell, will foften the Descent,
And gently flope our Paffage to the Grave;
How warmly to be wifht? what Heart of Flesh
Would trifle with Tremendous? dare Extremes?
Yawn o'er the Fate of Infinite? what Hand,
Beyond the blackest Brand of Cenfure bold,
(To fpeak a Language too well known to Thee)
Would at a Moment give its all to Chance,
And stamp the Die for an Eternity?