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They then turn witnesses against themselves.
Hear that, LORENZO! nor be wife to-morrow.
Hafte, hafte! A man, by nature, is in hafte ;
For who fhall anfwer for another hour?.
'Tis highly prudent, to make one fure friend;
And that thou canst not do, this fide the fkies.

Ye fons of earth! (nor willing to be more!) Since verse you think from priestcraft somewhat free, Thus, in an age fo gay, the Mufe plain truths (Truths which, at church, you might have heard in profe) Has ventur'd into light; well-pleas'd the verse Should be forgot, if you the truths retain ; And crown her with your welfare, not your praife. But praise the need not fear; I fee my fate; And healong leap, like CURTIUS, down the gulph... Since many an ample volume, mighty tome, Muft die; and die unwept; O thou minute, Devoted page! go forth among thy foes; Go, nobly proud of martyrdom for truth, And die a double death. Mankind, incens'd, Denies thee long to live; Nor fhalt thou rest, When thou art dead; in Stygian fhades arraign'd By LUCIFER, as traitor to his throne; And bold blafphemer of his friendThe World, whofe legions coft him slender And volunteers around his banner fwarm; Prudent, as Prussia, in her zeal for Gaul.

-the World;

pay.

"Are all, then, fools?" LORENZO cries-Yes all But fuch as hold this doctrine, (new to thee)

"The mother of true wisdom is the will ;"

The nobleft intellect, a fool without it,

World-wisdom much has done, and more may do,
In arts and fciences, in wars and peace;

;

But art and science, like thy wealth, will leave thee,
And make thee twice a beggar at thy death.
This is the most indulgence can afford
"Thy wisdom all can do but make thee wise."
Nor think this cenfure is fevere on thee;
Satan, thy mafter, I dare call a dunce.

THE

CONSOLATION.

NIGHT NINTH AND LAST.

CONTAINING, AMONG OTHER THINGS,

I. A MORAL SURVEY OF THE NOCTURNAL HEA→

VENS.

II. A NIGHT-ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.

-Fatis contraria fata rependens.

VIRG.

A

S when a traveller, a long day past

In painful fearch of what he cannot find, At night's approach, content with the next cot, There ruminates, a while, his labour loft; Then chears his heart with what his fate affords, And chants his fonnet to deceive the time, Till the due feafon calls him to repose: Thus I, long travell'd in the ways of men, And dancing, with the reft, the giddy maze, Where Disappointment fmiles at Hope's career; Warn'd by the languor of life's ev'ning ray, At length have hous'd me in an humble fhed, Where, future wand'ring banish'd from my thought,. And waiting, patient, the fweet hour of reft, chate the moments with a ferious fong.

Sung footles our pains; and age has pains to foothe..

When age, care, crime, and frids embrac'd at heart,

Torn from my bleeding brea

Which hovers o'er me, qur

Death's dark fhade,

th'etherial fire;

Can't thou, O Night! induge one labour more?
One labour more indulge: Then fleep, my ftrain!
Till, haply wak'd by Raphael's golden lyre,
Where night, death, age, care, crime, and forrow cease;,
To bear a part in everlasting lays;

Though far, far higher fet, in aim, I trust,,
Symphonious to this humble prelude bere.

Has not the Mufe afferted pleasures pure,
Like those above, exploding other joys?
Weigh what was urg'd, LORENZO! fairly weigh;
And tell me, haft thou cause to triumph ftill?
I think thou wilt forbear a boast fo bold.
But if, beneath the favour of mistake,
Thy fmile's fincere; not more fincere can be
LORENZO'S fmile, than my compaffion för him.
The fick in body call for aid; the fick
In mind are covetous of more difeafe;

And when at worst they dream themselves quite well.
To know ourselves difeas'd, is half our cure..
When Nature's blufh, by Custom is wip'd off,
And confcience, deaden'd by repeated strokes,
Has into manners naturaliz'd our crimes,
The curfe of curfes is our curfe to love;,
To triumph in the blackness of our guilt,
(As Indians glory in the deepest jet),
And throw afide our senses with our peace.

But grant no guilt, no fhame, no leaft alloy;
Grant joy, and glory, quite unfully'd, fhone;
Yet, full, it ill deferves LORENZO's heart..
No jay, no glory, glitters in thy fight,
But thro' the thin partition of an hour:
I fee its fables wove by destiny ;.

And that in forrow bury'd; this, in fhame:
While howling furies ring the doleful knell;
And nscience, now fo foft thou fcarce canfl herr
Her whifper, echoes her eternal peal.

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