Talk they of morals ? O thou bleeding Love!
Thou Maker of new morals to mankind!
The grand morality, is love of thee.

As wise as SOCRATES, if such they were,
(Nor will they 'bate of that sublime renown;)
As wise as SOCRATES, might justly stand
The definition of a modern fool.

A CHRISTIAN, is the highest style of man.
And is there, who the blessed cross wipes off,
As a foul blot, from his dishonour'd brow?
If angels tremble, 'tis at such a sight:

The wretch they quit, desponding of their charge,
More struck with grief or wonder, who can tell!
Ye sold to sense! ye citizens of earth!
(For such alone the Christian banner fly;)
Know ye how wise your choice, how great your gain?
Behold the picture of earth's happiest man:
"He calls his wish, it comes; he sends it back,
"And says he call'd another; that arrives,
"Meets the same welcome; yet he still calls on;
""Till One calls him, who varies not his call,
"But holds him fast, in chains of darkness bound,
""Till Nature dies, and judgment sets him free;
"A freedom far less welcome than his chain."

But grant man happy; grant him happy long; Add to life's highest prize, her latest hour; That hour, so late, is nimble in approach, That, like a post, comes on in full career: How swift the shuttle flies, that weaves thy shroud! Where is the fable of thy former years?

Thrown down the gulph of time; as far from thee As they had ne'er been thine; the day in hand, Like a bird struggling to get loose, is going;

Scarce now possess'd, so suddenly 'tis gone;
And each swift moment fled, is death advanc'd
By strides as swift: Eternity is all;

And whose eternity? Who triumphs there?
Bathing for ever in the font of bliss!
For ever basking in the Deity!

LORENZO! Who?-Thy conscience shall reply.
O give it leave to speak; 'twill speak ere long,
'Thy leave unask'd: LORENZO! hear is now,
While useful its advice, its accent mild.
By the great ediet, the Divine decree,
Truth is deposited with man's last hour;
An honest hour, and faithful to her trust;
Truth, eldest daughter of the Deity;

Truth of his council, when he made the world;
Nor less, when he shall judge the worlds he made;
Though silent long, and sleeping ne'er so sound,
Smother'd with errors, and opprest with toys,
That Heav'n-commission'd hour no sooner calls,
But from her cavern in the soul's abyss,
Like him they fable under Etna whelm'd,
The goddess bursts in thunder, and in flame;
Loudly convinces, and severely pains.
Dark Demons I discharge, and Hydra-stings;
The keen vibration of bright truth-is Hell:
Just definition! though by schools untaught.
Ve deaf to truth! peruse this parson'd page,
And trust, for once, a prophet and a priest;
"Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die."

THE

COMPLAINT.

NIGHT FIFTH.

THE RELAPSE.

To the Right Honourable the Earl of Litchfield.

LORENZO! to recriminate is just.

Fondness of fame is avarice of air.

I grant the man is vain who writes for praise.
Praise no man e'er deserv'd, who sought no more.

As just thy second charge. I grant the muse
Has often blush'd at her degen❜rate sons,
Retain❜d by sense to plead her filthy cause;
To raise the low, to magnify the mean,
And subtilize the gross into refin❜d:
As if to magic numbers' pow'rful charm
'Twas giv'n, to make a civit of their song
Obscene, and sweeten ordure to perfume.
Wit, a true Pagan, deifies the brute,
And lifts our swine-enjoyments from the mire.
The fact notorious, nor obscure the cause.
We wear the chains of pleasure, and of pride:

These share the man, and these distract him too;
Draw diff'rent ways, and clash in their commands.
Pride, like an Eagle, builds among the stars;
But pleasure, Lark-like, nests upon the ground.
Joys shar'd by brute-creation, pride resents;
Pleasure embraces: Man would both enjoy,
And both at once: A point how hard to gain !
But what can't wit, when stung by strong desire?
Wit dares attempt this arduous enterprize.
Since joys of sense can't rise to Reason's taste;
In subtle sophistry's laborious forge.

Wit hammers out a reason new, that stoops
To sordid scenes, and meets them with applause.
Wit calls the graces the chaste zone to loose;
Nor less than a plump god to fill the bowl:
A thousand phantoms, and a thousand spells,
A thousand opiates scatters, to delude,
To fascinate, inebriate, lay asleep,

And the fool'd mind delightfully confound.

Thus that which shock'd the judgment, shocks no

more;

That which gave pride offence, no more offends.
Pleasure and pride, by nature, mortal foes,

At war eternal, which in man shall reign,
By wit's address, patch up a fatal peace,

And, hand in hand, lead on the rank debauch,
From rank, refin'd to delicate, and gay.
Art, cursed art! wipes off th' indebted blush
From Nature's cheek, and bronzes ev'ry shame.
Man smiles in ruin, glories in his guilt,
And infamy stands candidate for praise.
All writ by man in favour of the soul,
These sensual Ethics far, in bulk, transcend.