'Tis Thefe, 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 Smalleft Thing we do?
Thus, Nothing is Infipid to the Wife;

To Thee, Infipid All, but what is Mad;
Joys feafon'd high, and tafting ftrong of Guilt.

"Mad? (thou reply'st, with Indignation fir'd)
"Of antient Sages proud to tread the Steps,
"I follow Nature.". -Follow Nature still,
But look it be thine own: Is Confcience, then,
No Part of Nature? Is fhe not Supreme

?

Thou Regicide! O raise her from the Dead!
Then, follow Nature; and resemble GOD.
WHEN, Spight of Confcience, Pleasure is purfu'd,
Man's Nature is unnaturally pleas'd:

And what's Unnatural, is Painful too

At Intervals, and muft difguft 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 facred Int❜refts 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 muft fuffer, which should leaft be spar'd?
The Pains of Mind surpass the Pains of Sense;
Afk, 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 Past, and Future, forages for Joy;

"Tis Hers, by Retrofpect, thro' Time to range; And forward Time's great Sequel to furvey.

Could buman Courts take Vengeance on the Mind,

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Axes might ruft, 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 Pulfe, to lift
With ev'ry Luft, that wars against his Peace;
And fets him quite at Variance with Himself.
Thyfelf, 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 deftroys.

This Self, when Rival to the Former, fcorn;
When not in Competition, kindly treat,
Defend it, Feed it :-But when Virtue bids,
Tofs it, or to the Fowls, or to the Flames:
And why? 'Tis Love of Pleasure bids thee bleed;
Comply, or own Self-Love extinct or blind.

FOR what is Vice? Self-Love in a Mistake;
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 Senfe is Love of that dread Pow'r,
From whom Herself, and All fhe can enjoy ;
Other Self-Love is but difguis'd Self-Hate;
More mortal than the Malice of our Foes ;
A Self-Hate, now, fcarce felt; then felt full-fore,
When Being, curft; Extinction, loud-implor'd;
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 Difaffection to the present Hour?

Imagination wanders far afield;

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The

The Future pleafes: Why? The Prefent pains :-
But that's a Secret-Yes, which all Men know;
And know from Thee, discover'd unawares.
Thy ceaseless Agitation, reftlefs Roll

From Cheat to Cheat, impatient of a Pause;
What is it?-'Tis the Cradle of the Soul,
From Inftina fent, to rock her in Disease,
Which her Phyfician, Reafon, will not cure;
A poor Expedient! yet thy Beft; 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 fuperior Bliss ;

And what fure Mark diftinguishes the Wife?
Confiftent Wisdom ever wills the fame;
Thy fickle Wish is ever on the Wing.
Sick of Herself, is Folly's Character ;
As Wifdem's is, a modeft Self-Applause;
A Change of Evils is thy Good fupreme;
Nor, but in Motion, canft thou find thy Reft.
Man's greatest Strength is shewn in standing still:
The firft fure Symptom of a Mind in Health,
Is Reft of Heart, and Pleasure felt at Home;
Falfe Pleasure from Abroad her Joys imports,
Rich from within, and Self-suftain'd, the True :
The True is fixt, and folid, as a Rock;

Slipp'ry the False, and toffing, as the Wave:
This, a wild Wanderer on Earth, like Cain;
That, like the fabled, Self-enamour'd Boy,
Home Contemplation her fupreme Delight;
She dreads an Interruption from without,
Smit with her own Condition; and the more
Intense she gazes, still 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 o’erflows on All;

And

And Love o'erflowing makes an Angel Here;
Such Angels All, intitled to repose

On Him who governs Fate: Tho' Tempeft frowns,
Tho' Nature shakes, 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 ftand 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 fequeftred Scenes,
While Noise, and Diffipation, comfort Thee.
WERE all Men Happy, Revellings would ceafe
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 modeft Afpect, and a Smile at Heart:
O for a Joy from thy PHILANDER'S Spring!
A Spring perennial, rifing in the Breast,
And Permanent, as Pure! no turbid Stream
Of rapt'rous Exultation fwelling high;
Which, like Land floods, impetuous pour a-while,
Then fink at once, and leave us in the Mire:
What does the Man, who tranfient Joy prefers ?
What, but prefer the Bubbles to the Stream?
VAIN are all fudden Sallies of Delight;
Convulfions 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 gain'd with Ease, nor fafely lov'd, if gain'd?
At Good Fortuitous, draw back, and pause;
Sufpect it; what thou canft infure, enjoy ;
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And

And nought but what thou giv'ft thyself, is Sure:
Reafon perpetuates Joy that Reason gives,

And makes it as Immortal as herself:

To Mortals, nought Immortal, but their Worth.

WORTH, Confcious Worth! fhould abfolutely reign;
And other Joys ask 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 leaft Promise of internal Peace!
No Bofom-Comfort! or unborrow'd Bliss!

Thy Thoughts are Vagabonds; All Outward-bound,
Mid Sands, and Rocks, and Storms, to cruize for
Pleasure ;

If gain'd, dear-bought; and better mifs'd than gain'd;
Much Pain muft expiate, what much Pain procur'd.
Fancy, and Senfe, from an infected Shore,

Thy Cargo bring; and Peftilence, the Prize:
Then, Such thy Thirft (infatiable Thirft!
By fond Indulgence, but inflam'd the more!)
Fancy ftill cruizes, when poor Senfe 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

Fame:

Wouldst thou receive them, Other Thoughts there are, On Angel-Wing, defcending from Above,

Which Thefe, with Art divine, would counterwork, And form Celestial Armour for thy Peace.

IN This is feen Imagination's Guilt;

But who can count her Follies? She betrays thee,
To think in Grandeur there is fomething Great.
For Works of curious Art, and antient Fame,

Thy