Good-will to Men?) to love their dearest Friend;

For may he not invade their Good Supreme,

Where the least Jealousy turns Love to Gall?
All fhines to Them, that for a Seafon fhines.
Each Act,each Thought,He questions, “What itsWeight,
"Its Colour what, a Thousand Ages hence?"-
And what it there appears, he deems it now.
Hence, pure are the Receffes of his Soul.

The God-like Man has nothing to conceal.
His Virtue, conftitutionally deep,

Has Habit's Firmnefs, and Affection's Flame:
Angels, ally'd, defcend to feed the Fire;

And Death, which Others flays, makes him a God.

And now, LORENZO! Bigot of this World! Wont to difdain poor Bigots caught by Heaven! Stand by thy Scorn, and be reduc'd to Nought: For what art Thou?-Thou Boafter! While thy Glare, Thy gaudy Grandeur, and mere worldly Worth, Like a broad Mist, at Distance, strikes us most; And, like a Mift, is nothing when at hand; His Merit, like a Mountain, on Approach, Swells more, and rifes nearer to the Skies, By Promife, now, and, by Poffeffion, foon, (Too foon, too much, it cannot be) his Own.

From this thy just Annihilation rise, LORENZO! rife to Something, by Reply.

The

The World, thy Client, liftens, and expects;
And longs to crown thee with immortal Praife.
Canft thou be filent? No; for Wit is Thine;
And Wit talks moft, when leaft fhe has to fay,
And Reafon interrupts not her Career.
She'll fay-That Mifts above the Mountains rife
And, with a thousand Pleasantries, amuse;
She'll sparkle, puzzle, flutter, raise a Dust,
And fly Conviction, in the Duft fhe rais'd.

Wit, how delicious to Man's dainty Tafte!
'Tis precious, as the Vehicle of Sense;
But, as its Substitute, a dire Disease.

Pernicious Talent! Flatter'd by the World,
By the blind World, which thinks the Talent rare.
Wisdom is rare, LORENZO! Wit abounds;
Paffion can give it; fometimes Wine infpires
The lucky Flash; and Madness rarely fails.
Whatever Cause the Spirit ftrongly stirs,
Confers the Bays, and rivals thy Renown.
For thy Renown, 'twere well, was This the worst,
Chance often hits it; and, to pique thee more,
See Dulness, blund'ring on Vivacities,
Shakes her Sage Head at the Calamity,
Which has expos'd, and let her down to Thee.
But Wisdom, awful Wifdom! which infpects,
Difcerns, compares, weighs, feparates, infers,
Seizes the Right, and holds it to the laft;

How

How rare! In Senates, Synods, fought in vain;
Or if there found, 'tis facred to the Few;
While a lewd Prostitute to Multitudes,
Frequent, as Fatal, Wit: In Civil Life,
Wit makes an Enterprizer; Senfe, a Man.
Wit hates Authority; Commotion loves,
And thinks herself the Lightning of the Storm.
In States, 'tis dangerous; in Religion, Death:
Shall Wit turn Chriftian, when the Dull believe?
Senfe is our Helmet, Wit is but the Plume;
The Plume expofes, 'tis our Helmet faves.
Sense is the Di'mond, weighty, folid, found;
When cut by Wit, it cafts a brighter Beam;
Yet, Wit apart, it is a Di'mond still.

Wit, widow'd of Good-fenfe, is worse than Nought;
It hoifts more Sail to run against a Rock.
Thus, a Half-CHESTERFIELD is quite a Fool;
Whom dull Fools fcorn, and bless their Want of Wit.

How ruinous the Rock I warn thee fhun,
Where Sirens fit, to fing thee to thy Fate!
A Joy, in which our Reafon bears no Part,
Is but a Sorrow tickling, ere it ftings.
Let not the Cooings of the World allure thee;
Which of her Lovers ever found her True?
Happy! of this bad World who little know;
And yet, we much must know her, to be Safe.
To know the World, not love her, is thy Point;

She

She gives but Little, nor that Little, long.
There is, I grant, a Triumph of the Pulfe;
A Dance of Spirits, a mere Froth of Joy,
Our thoughtless Agitation's idle Child.
That mantles high, that fparkles, and expires,
Leaving the Soul more vapid than before.
An animal Ovation! fuch as holds

No Commerce with our Reafon, but fubfifts
On Juices, thro' the well-ton'd Tubes, well-ftrain'd;
A nice Machine! fcarce ever tun'd aright;
And when it jars-thy Sirens fing no more,
Thy Dance is done; the Demi-god is thrown
(Short Apotheofis!) beneath the Man,
In coward Gloom immers'd, or fell Defpair.

Art thou yet Dull enough Defpair to dread, And ftartle at Deftruction? If thou art, Accept a Buckler, take it to the Field; (A Field of Battle is this mortal Life!) When Danger threatens, lay it on thy Heart A fingle Sentence Proof againft the World. "Soul, Body, Fortune! Every Good pertains "To one of thefe; but prize not All alike; "The Goods of Fortune to thy Body's Health, Body to Soul, and Soul fubmit to God." Wouldst thou build lafting Happiness? Do This; Th' inverted Pyramid can never ftand.

Is this Truth doubtful? It outshines the Sun;
Nay, the Sun fhines not, but to fhew us This,
The fingle Leffon of Mankind on Earth.

And yet-Yet, what? No News! Mankind is mad;
Such mighty Numbers lift against the Right,
(And what can't Numbers, when bewitch'd, atchieve?)
They talk Themselves to Something like Belief,
That all Earth's Joys are Theirs: As Athens' Fool
Grinn'd from the Port, on ev'ry Sail his Own.

They grin; but wherefore? And how long the Laugh? Half Ignorance, their Mirth; and Half, a Lye; To cheat the World, and cheat Themselves, they fmile. Hard either Tafk! The moft Abandon'd own, That Others, if Abandon'd, are undone:

Then, for Themselves, the Moment Reason wakes, (And Providence denies it long Repose)

O how laborious is their Gaiety!

They scarce can swallow their ebullient Spleen,
Scarce mufter Patience to fupport the Farce,
And pump fad Laughter, till the Curtain falls.
Scarce, did I fay? Some cannot fit it out;
Oft their own daring Hands the Curtain draw,
And fhew us what their Joy, by their Despair.

The clotted Hair! gor'd Breast! blafpheming Eye!

Its impious Fury ftill alive in Death!

Shut,