Falfe Joys, indeed, are born from Want of Thought;
From Thought's full Bent, and Energy, the True;
And that demands a Mind in equal Poize,
Remote from gloomy Grief, and glaring Joy.
Much Joy not only fpeaks fmall Happiness,
But Happiness, that shortly muft expire.
Can Joy, unbottom'd in Reflection, stand?
And, in a Tempeft, can Reflection live?
Can Joy, like Thine, fecure itself an Hour?
Can Joy, like Thine, meet Accident unshock'd ?
the Door to honest Poverty?
Or talk with threat'ning Death, and not turn pale?
In fuch a World, and fuch a Nature, Thefe
Are needful Fundamentals of Delight:
Thefe Fundamentals, give Delight indeed;
Delight, pure, delicate, and durable;
Delight, unshaken, mafculine, divine;
A conftant, and a found, but serious Joy.
Is Joy the Daughter of Severity?
It is:-Yet far my Doctrine from Severe.
c Rejoice for ever :" It becomes a Man;
Exalts, and fets him nearer to the Gods.
Rejoice for ever," Nature cries," Rejoice;"
And drinks to Man, in her nectareous Cup,
Mixt up of Delicates for ev'ry Sense;1
To the great Founder of the bounteous Feaft,
Drinks Glory, Gratitude, eternal Praise;
And he that will not pledge her, is a Churl.
I firmly to fupport, Good fully tafte,
Is the whole Science of Felicity:
Yet fparing Pledge: Her Bowl is not the Best Mankind can boaft." A rational Repaft; "Exertion, Vigilance, a Mind in Arms, "A military Difcipline of Thought, "To foil Temptation in the doubtful Field; "And ever-waking Ardor for the Right." 'Tis Thefe, firft, give, then guard, a chearful Heart. Nought that is Right, think Little; well aware, What Reafon bids, God bids; by His Command How aggrandiz'd, the smallest Thing we do! Thus, Nothing is infipid to the Wife; To Thee, Infipid All, but what is Mad; Joys feafon'd' high, and tasting strong of Guilt.
"Mad! (thou reply'ft, with Indignation fir'd) "Of antient Sages proud to tread the Steps, I follow Nature."-Follow Nature ftill, But look it be thine own: Is Confcience, then, No Part of Nature? Is fhe not Supreme? Thou Regicide! O raife her from the Dead! Then, follow Nature; and resemble GOD.
When, fpite 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 Fall thou know'ft; but not, perhaps, the Caufe.
Virtue's Foundations with the World's wefe laid;
Heav'n mixt her with our Make, and twisted clofe
Her facred Int❜refts with the Strings of Life.
Who breaks her awful Mandate, fhocks Himself,
His better Self: And is it greater Pain,
Our Soul fhould murmur, or our Dust repine?
And One, in their eternal War, muft bleed.
If One must fuffer, which should leaft be spar'd?
The Pains of Mind furpafs the Pains of Senfe :
Afk, then, the Gout, What Torment is in Guilt.
The Joys of Senfe to Mental Joys are mean:
Senfe on the Present only feeds; the Soul
On Paft, and Future; forages for Joy.
'Tis Hers, by Retrofpect, thro' Time to range,
And forward Time's great Sequel to furvey.
Could human Courts take Vengeance on the Mind,
Axes might ruft, and Racks, and Gibbets, fall:
Guard, then, thy Mind, and leave the reft 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.
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, Justice 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 Pleafure bids thee bleed;
Comply, or own Self-Love extinct, 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 Senfe is Love of that dread Power,
From whom Herfelf, 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 prefent Hour!
Imagination wanders far afield :
The Future pleases: Why? the Prefent pains."But that's a Secret."-Yes, which all Men know;
And know from Thee, difcover'd unawares.
Thy ceafelefs Agitation, reftlefs Roll
From Cheat to Cheat, impatient of a Paufe;
What is it?'Tis the Cradle of the Soul,
From Inftinct fent, to rock her in Difeafe,
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 Wife have Joys.
Superior Wisdom is fuperior Blifs.
And what fure Mark diftinguishes the Wife?
Confiftent Wisdom ever wills the Same;
Thy fickle Wish is ever on the Wing.
Sick of Herself, is Folly's Character;
As Wisdom's is, a modeft Self-Applaufe.
A Change of Evils is thy Good fupreme;
Nor, but in Motion, canft thou find thy Rest.
Man's greatest Strength is fhewn in ftanding still.
The first 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-sustain'd, the True.
The True is fixt, and folid as a Rock;
Slipp'ry the Falfe, 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;
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