In queft of Wretchedness perversely ftrays;
And finds all defart now; and meets the Ghofts
Of my departed Joys; a num'rous Train!
I rue the Riches of my former Fate;
Sweet Comfort's blafted Clufters I lament;
I tremble at the Bleffings once fo dear;
And ev'ry Pleasure pains me to the Heart.

Yet why complain? or why complain for One?
Hangs out the Sun his Luftre but for me,
The fingle Man? Are Angels all befide?
I mourn for Millions: 'Tis the common Lot;
In this Shape, or in that, has Fate entail'd
The Mother's Throws on all of Woman born,
Not more the Children, than fure Heirs of Pain.

War, Famine, Peft, Volcano, Storm, and Fire,
Inteftine Broils, Oppreffion, with her Heart
Wrapt up in triple Brass, befiege Mankind.
God's Image difinherited of Day,

Here, plung'd in Mines, forgets a Sun was made.
There, Beings deathlefs as their haughty Lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling Oar for Life;
And plough the Winter's Wave, and reap Defpair,
Some, for hard Masters, broken under Arms,
In Battle lopt away, with half their Limbs,
Beg bitter Bread thro' Realms their Valour fav'd,
If fo the Tyrant, or his Minion, doom.
Want, and incurable Difeafe, (fell Pair !)

On

On hopeless Multitudes remorfeless seize
At once; and make a Refuge of the Grave.
How groaning Hofpitals eject their Dead!
What Numbers groan for fad Admiffion there!
What Numbers, once in Fortune's Lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold Hand of Charity!

To shock us more, folicit it in vain!

Ye filken Sons of Pleafure! fince in Pains
You rue more modifh Vifits, vifit bere,

And breathe from your Debauch: Give, and reduce
Surfeit's Dominion o'er you; but fo great
Your Impudence, you blush at what is Right!

Happy! did Sorrow feize en fuch alone.
Not Prudence can defend, or Virtue save;
Disease invades the chafteft Temperance;
And Punishment the Guiltless; and Alarm
Thro' thickeft Shades, purfues the fond of Peace.
Man's Caution often into Danger turns,
And his Guard falling, crushes him to Death.
Not Happinefs itself makes good her Name;
very Wishes give us not our Wish.

Our

How distant oft the Thing we doat on most,
From that for which we doat, Felicity?
The fmootheft Courfe of Nature has its Pains;
And trueft Friends, thro' Error, wound our Reft.
Without Misfortune, what Calamities?

And what Hoftilities, without a Foe?

Nor are Foes wanting to the best on Earth,

1

But

But endless is the Lift of human Ills,

And Sighs might fooner fail, than Caufe to figh.

A Part how small of the terraqueous Globe
Is tenanted by Man! the Reft a Waste,

Rocks, Defarts, frozen Seas, and burning Sands:
Wild Haunts of Monsters, Poifons, Stings, and Death.
Such is Earth's melancholy Map! But, far
More fad! this Earth is a true Map of Man.
So bounded are its haughty Lord's Delights
To Woe's wide Empire; where deep Troubles tofs,
Loud Sorrows howl, invenom'd Paffions bite,
Rav'nous Calamities our Vitals seize,

And threat'ning Fate, wide opens to devour.

What then am I, who forrow for myself?
In Age, in Infancy, from others Aid
Is all our Hope; to teach us to be kind.
That, Nature's first, laft Leffon to Mankind
The felfifh Heart deferves the Pain it feels.
More gen'rous Sorrow, while it finks, exalts;
And confcious Virtue mitigates the Pang..
Nor Virtue, more than Prudence, bids me give
Swoln Thought a fecond Chanel; who divide,
They weaken too, the Torrent of their Grief.
Take then, O World! thy much-indebted Tear
How fad a Sight is human Happiness,

To those whofe Thought can pierce beyond an Hour!
O thou! whate'er thou art, whofe Heart exults!

Wouldft

Wouldft thou I should congratulate thy Fate?

I know thou wouldft; thy Pride demands it from me.
Let thy Pride pardon, what thy Nature needs,
The falutary Cenfure of a Friend.

Thou happy Wretch! by Blindness art thou blest;
By Dotage dandled to perpetual Smiles.
Know, Smiler at thy peril art thou pleas'd;
Thy Pleasure is the Promife of thy Pain.
Misfortune, like a Creditor fevere,
But rifes in demand for her Delay;
She makes a fcourge of paft Profperity,
To fting thee more, and double thy Diftrefs.

LORENZO, Fortune makes her Court to thee,
Thy fond Heart dances, while the Siren fings.
Dear is thy Welfare; think me not unkind;
I would not damp, but to fecure thy joys.
Think not that Fear is facred to the Storm,
Stand on thy guard against the Similes of Fate.
Is Heaven tremendous in its Frowns? moft fure;
And in its Favours formidable too;

Its favours here are Tryals, not Rewards;
A call to Duty, not difcharge from Care;
And should alarm us, full as much as Woes;
Awake us to their Caufe, and Confequence;
And make us tremble, weigh'd with our Defert;
Awe Nature's Tumult, and chaftife her Joys,
Left while we clafp, we kill them; nay invert
To worse than fimple mifery, their Charms.

Revolted Joys, like foes in civil war,
Like bofom friendships to resentment four'd,
With rage envenom'd rife against our Peace.
Beware what Earth calls Happiness; beware
All joys, but joys that never can expire.
Who builds on lefs than an immortal Base,
Fond as he feems, condemns his joys to Death.

Mine dy'd with thee, PHILANDER! thy laft Sigh Diffolv'd the charm; the difenchanted Earth Loft all her Luftre. Where, her glittering Towers?" Her golden Mountains, where? all darken'd down To naked Wafte; a dreary Vale of Tears; The great Magician's dead! Thou poor, pale Piece Of out-caft earth, in Darkness! what a Change From yesterday! Thy darling Hope fo near, (Long-labour'd Prize!) O how Ambition flush'd Thy glowing Cheek! Ambition truly great, Of virtuous Praise. Death's fubtle Seed within, (Sly, treach'rous Miner!) working in the Dark, Smil'd at thy well-concerted Scheme, and beckon'd The Worm to riot on that Rofe fo red, Unfaded ere it fell; one Moment's Prey!

Man's Forefight is conditionally wife; LORENZO! Wisdom into Folly turns Oft, the first Instant, its Idea fair

To labouring Thought is born. How dim our Eye! The prefent Moment terminates our Sight;

Clouds,