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'Tis These, first, give, then guard, a chearful Heart:
Nought that is Right, think Little ; well aware,
What Reason bids, God bids ; by His Command
How aggrandiz'd, the Smallest Thing we do?
Thus, Nothing is Infipid to the Wise ;
To Thce, Infipid All, but what is Mad;
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of Guilt.
“ Mad? (thou reply'it, with Indignation fir’d)
“ Of antient Sages proud to tread the Steps,
« I follow Nature.". -Follow Nature still,
But look it be thine orn: Is Conscience, then,
No:Part of Nature ? Is the not Supreme ?
Thou Regicide! O raise her from the Dead !
Then, follow Nature ; and resemble God.
When, Spight of Conscience, Pleasure is pursu'd, Man's Nature is unnaturally pleas'd : And what's Unnatural, is Painful too At Intervals, and must disguft ev'n Thee! The Fact thou know'ft; but not, perhaps, the Caufe: Virtue's Foundations, with the World's were laid ; Heav'n mixt her with our Make, and twisted close Her sacred Int’rests with the Strings of Life ; Who breaks Her awful Mandate, shocks Himself, His Better Self: And is it greater Pain, Our Soul should murmur, or our Duft repine? And One, in their eternal War, muft bleed.
If One must fuffer, which should leaft be spar'd? The Pains of Mind surpass the Pains of Sense ; Ak, then, the Gout, What Torment is in Guilt ; The Joys of Sense to Mental Joys are mean; Sense on the Present only feeds; the Soul On Paft, and Future, forages for Joy ; 'Tis Hers, by Retrospect, thro' Time to range ; And forward Time's great Sequel to survey, Çould buman Courts take Vengeance on the Mind,
From whom Herselfie
Axes might rust, and Racks, and Gibbets, fall :
Guard, then, thy Mind, and leave the rest to Fate.
Lorenzo! wilt thou never be a Man?
The Man is dead, who for the Body lives,
Lur'd, by the Beating of his Pulse, to lift
With ev'ry Lust, that wars against his Peace ;
And sets him quite at Variance with Himself.
Thyself, first, Know, then Love: A Self there is
Of Virtue fond, that kindles at her Charms :
A Self there is, as fond of ev'ry Vice,
While ev'ry Virtue wounds it to the Heart ;
Humility degrades it, Juftice robs,
Bleft Bounty beggars it, fair Truth betrays,
And godlike Magnanimity destroys.
This Self, when Rival to the Former, scorn :
When not in Competition, kindly treat,
Defend it, Feed it :- But when Virtue bids,
Toss it, or to the Fowls, or to the Flames :
And why? 'Tis Love of Pleasure bids thee bleed;
Comply, or own Self-Love exting or blind,
For what is Vice? Self-Love in a Miftake ;
A poor blind Merchant buying Joys too dear
And Virtue, what? 'Tis Self-Love in her Wits,
Quite skilful in the Market of Delight:
Self-Love's good Sense is Love of that dread Pow'r,
Other Self-Love is but disguis'd Self-Hate ;
More mortal than the Malice of our Foes ;
A Self-Hate, now, scarce felt ; then felt full-fore,
When Being, curft ; Extinction, loud-implord;
And ev'ry Thing preferr'd to what we are.
Yet this Self-Love LORENZO makes his Choice ;
And in this Choice triumphant, boasts of Joy:
How is his Want of Happiness betray'd,
By Disaffection to the present Hour?
Imagination wanders far afield;
The Future pleases: Why? The Present pains :-
But that's a Secret-Yes, which all Men know ;
And know from Thee, discover'd unawares.
Thy ceaseless Agitation, restless Roll
From Cheat to Cheat, impatient of a Pause :
What is it?--'Tis the Cradle of the Soul,
From Inftine sent, to rock her in Disease,
Which her Physician, Reason, will not cure ;
A poor Expedient ! yet thy Best; and while
It mitigates thy Pain, it owns it too.
Such are Lorenzo's wretched Remedies !
The Weak have Remedies ; the Wise haye Joys.
Superior Wisdom is superior Bliss;
And what fure Mark distinguishes the Wise?
Consistent Wisdom ever wills the same;
Thy fickle Wilh is ever on the Wing.
Sick of Herself, is Folly's Character ;
As Wisdom's is, a modeft Self-Applause ;
A Change of Evils is thy Good supreme ;
Nor, but in Motion, canst thou find thy Reft.
Man's greatest Strength is fewn in standing still:
The first fure Symptom of a Mind in Health,
Is Rest of Heart, and Pleasure felt at Home;
False Pleasure from Abroad her Joys imports,
Rich from within, and Self-sustain'd, the True :
The True is fixt, and solid, as a Rock ;
Slipp’ry the False, and tosling, as the Wave:
This, a wild Wanderer on Earth, like Cain;
That, like the fabled, Self-enamour'd Boy,
Home Contemplation her supreme Delight;
She dreads an Interruption from without,
Smit with her own Condition ; and the more
Intense she gazes, ftill it charms the more.
No Man is Happy, till he thinks, on Earth
There breathes not a more happy than Himself:
Then Envy dies, and Love p'erdows on All ;
And Love o'erflowing makes an Angel Here;
Such Angels All, intitled to repose
On Him who governs Fate : Tho' Tempest frowns,
Tho' Nature. Thakes, how Soft to lean on Heav'n}
To lean on Him on whom Arch angels lean?
With inward Eyes, and filent as the Grave,
They stand collecting ev'ry Beam of Thought,
Till their Hearts kindle with divine Delight;
For all their Thoughts, like Angels, feen of old
In Ifrael's Dream, come from, and go to, Heav'n:
Hence, are they ftudious of sequeftred Scenes,
While Noise, and Dissipation, comfort Thee.
Were all Men Happy, Revellings would ceale
That Opiate for Inquietude within.
Lorenzo! never Man was truly Bleft,
But it compos'd, and gave him such a Cast,
As Folly might mistake for Want of Joy ;
A Caft, unlike the Triumph of the Proud ;
A modest Aspect, and a Smile at Heart:
O for a Joy from thy PHILANDER'S Spring!
A Spring perennial, rising in the Breaft,
And Permanent, as Pure ! no turbid Stream
Of rapt'rous Exultation swelling high ;
Which, like Land-floods, impetuous pour a-while,
Then sink at once, and leave us in the Mire :
What does the Man, who transient Joy prefers ?
What, but prefer the Bubbles to the Stream ?
Vain are all fndden Sallies of Delight; Convulsions of a weak, diftemper'd Joy : Joy's a fixt State ; a Tenor, not a Start ; Bliss there is none, but unprecarious Bliss ; That is the Gem; Sell All, and purchase That: Why go a-begging to Contingencies, Not gaind with Ease, nor safely lov'd, if gain'd? At Good Fortuitous, draw back, and pause ; Suspect it; what thou canst insure, enjoy ;
And nought but what thou giv't thyself, is Sare:
Reafon perpetuates Joy that Reason gives,
And makes it as Immortal as herself:
To Mortals, nought Immortal, but their Worth.
Worth, conscious Worth ! should absolutely reign;
And other Joys alk Leave for their Approach ;
Nor, unexamin'd, ever Leave obtain.
Thou art all Anarchy; a Mob of Joys
Wage War, and perish in inteftine Broils;
Not the least Promise of internal Peace !
No Bosom-Comfort ! or unborrow'd Bliss !
Thy Thoughts are Vagabonds; AU Outward-bound,
Mid Sands, and Rocks, and Storms, to cruize for
Pleasure; If gain’d, dear-bought; and better miss'd than gain'd; Much Pain muft expiate, what much Pain procur'd. Fancy, and Senfe, from an infected Shore, Thy Cargo bring; and Pestilence, the Prize: Then, Such thy Thirft (insatiable Thirst! By fond Indulgence, but inflam'd the more !) Fancy still cruizes, when poor Sense is tir'd.
IMAGINATION is the Paphian Shop, Where feeble Happiness, like VULCAN, Lame, Bids foul Ideas, in their dark Recess, And hot as Hell (which kindled the black Fires), With wanton Art, those fatal Arrows form, Which murder all thy Time, Health, Wealth, and
Wouldst thou receive them, Other Thoughts there are,
On Angel-Wing, descending from Above,
Which These, with Art divine, would counterwork,
And form Celestial Armour for thy Peace.
In This is seen Imagination's Guilt;
But who can count her Follies? She betrays thee,
To think in Grandeur there is something Great.
For Works of curious Art, and antient Fame,