Or drench'd in floods of honey to be foak'd, 70
Imbalm'd to be at once preferv'd and choak'd ;
Or on an airy mountain's top to lie,
Expos'd to cold and heaven's inclemency;
Or crowded in a tomb to be opprest
With monumental marble on thy breast?
But to be snatch'd from all the houshold joys,
From thy chafte wife, and thy dear prattling

boys,

75

Whofe little arms about thy legs are caft,
And climbing for a kiss prevent their mother's

hafte,

Inspiring fecret pleasure through thy breast; so Ah! these shall be no more: thy friends oppreft Thy care and courage now no more shall free; Ah! wretch, thou cry'st, ah! miserable me! One woful day fweeps children, friends, and wife,

85

And all the brittle bleffings of my life!
Add one thing more, and all thou fay'ft is true;
Thy want and wish of them is vanish'd too :
Which, well confider'd, were a quick relief
To all thy vain imaginary grief.

For thou shalt fleep, and never wake again, 90
And, quitting life, shalt quit thy living pain.
But we, thy friends, fhall all thofe forrows find,
Which in forgetful death thou leav'ft behind;
No time fhall dry our tears, nor drive thee
from our mind.

The worst that can befal thee, meafur'd right, 93 Is a found flumber, and a long good night. Yet thus the fools, that would be thought the wits,

Disturb their mirth with melancholy fits: When healths go round, and kindly brimmers flow,

Till the fresh garlands on their foreheads glow, They whine, and cry, Let us make hafte to

live,

101

Short are the joys that human life can give.
Eternal preachers, that corrupt the draught,
And pall the god, that never thinks, with
thought;

Idiots with all that thought, to whom the worst
Of death, is want of drink, and endless thirst, 106
Or
any fond defire as vain as thefe.
For, ev'n in fleep, the body, wrapt in ease,
Supinely lies, as in the peaceful grave;
And, wanting nothing, nothing can it crave. 110
Were that found fleep eternal, it were death;
Yet the first atoms then, the feeds of breath,
Are moving near to fenfe; we do but shake
And roufe that fenfe, and ftraight we are
awake.

Then death to us, and death's anxiety,
Is less than nothing, if a lefs could be.

115

For then our atoms, which in order lay,
Are fcatter'd from their heap, and puff'd away,

And never can return into their place, When once the paufe of life has left an empty fpace.

120

And last, suppose great Nature's voice should

call

To thee, or me, or any of us all,

"What dost thou mean, ungrateful wretch, thou vain,

Thou mortal thing, thus idly to complain,
And figh and fob, that thou shalt be no
more?

For if thy life were pleasant heretofore,
If all the bounteous bleffings, I could give,
Thou haft enjoy'd, if thou haft known to live,
And pleasure not leak'd through thee like a

fieve;

125

Why doft thou not give thanks as at a plenteous

feaft,

130

Cramm'd to the throat with life, and rife and take thy reft?

But if my bleffings thou haft thrown away, If indigefted joys pafs'd through, and would not stay,

Why doft thou wish for more to fquander ftill? If life be grown a load, a real ill,

And I would all thy cares and labours end,

135

Lay down thy burden, fool, and know thy

friend.

To please thee, I have empty'd all

my flore,

I can invent, and can fupply no more;
But run the round again, the round I ran

before.

140

Suppofe thou art not broken yet with years, Yet ftill the felf-fame scene of things appears, And would be ever, couldft thou ever live ; For life is ftill but life, there's nothing new to give."

145

What can we plead against so just a bill? We stand convicted, and our caufe goes ill. But if a wretch, a man opprefs'd by fate, Should beg of Nature to prolong his date, She fpeaks aloud to him with more difdain, "Be ftill, thou martyr fool, thou covetous of pain."

But if an old decrepit fot lament;

150

"What thou (the cries) who haft out-liv'd con

tent!

155

Doft thou complain, who hast enjoy'd my ftore?
But this is ftill the effect of wishing more.
Unfatisfy'd with all that Nature brings ;
Loathing the present, liking absent things;
From hence it comes, thy vain defires, at ftrife
Within themselves, have tantaliz'd thy life.
And ghaftly death appear'd before thy fight,
Ere thou haft gorg'd thy foul and fenfes with
delight.

160

Now leave those joys, unfuiting to thy age,
To a fresh comer, and refign the stage;
Is Nature to be blam'd if thus fhe chide ?
No fure; for 'tis her business to provide
Againft this ever-changing frame's decay, 165
New things to come, and old to pass away.
One being, worn, another being makes;
Chang'd, but not loft; for Nature gives and

takes:

New matter must be found for things to come, And these must waste like thofe, and follow Nature's doom.

170

All things, like thee, have time to rife and rot; And from each other's ruin are begot:

For life is not confin'd to him or thee:

175

"Tis given to all for use, to none for property.
Confider former ages paft and gone,
Whofe circles ended long ere thine begun,
Then tell me, fool, what part in them thou haft?
Thus may'ft thou judge the future by the past.
What horror feeft thou in that quiet state,
What bugbear dreams to fright thee after fate?
No ghoft, no goblins, that ftill paffage keep; 181
But all is there ferene, in that eternal sleep.
For all the difmal tales, that Poets tell,
Are verify'd on earth, and not in hell.
No Tantalus looks up with fearful eye,
Or dreads the impending rock to crush him
from on high:

185