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Sheds fad viciffitude on all beneath.

Here teems with revolutions every hour ;
And rarely for the better; or the beft,
More mortal than the common births of fate.
Each Moment has its fickle, emulous

Of Time's enormous fcy the, whofe ample sweep
Strikes empires from the root; each moment plays
His little weapon in the narrower sphere

Of fweet domeftic comfort, and cuts down
The fairest bloom of fublunary blifs.

Blifs! fublunary blifs!-proud words, and vain!
Implicit treason to divine decree!

A bold invafion of the rights of heav'n!
I clafp'd the phantoms, and I found them air.
O had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace !
What darts of agony had mifs'd my heart!

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine
To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
The fun himself by thy permission shines ;

And, one day, thou shalt pluck him from his sphere.
Amid fuch mighty plunder, why exhauft

Thy partial quiver on a mark so mean?
Why thy peculiar rancour wreak'd on me?
Infatiate archer! could not one fuffice?

Thy fhaft flew thrice; and thrice my peace was flain;
And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn.
O Cynthia! why fo pale? Doft thou lament
Thy wretched neighbour? Grieve to fee thy wheel
Of ceafelefs change outwhirl'd in human life?
How wanes my borrow'd blifs! from fortune's fmile,

Preca

Precarious courtesy! not virtue's fure,
Self-given, Solar, ray of found delight.

In ev'ry vary'd pofture, place, and hour,
How widow'd ev'ry thought of ev'ry joy!
Thought, bufy thought! too bufy for my peace!
Thro' the dark postern of time long elaps'd,
Led foftly, by the ftilnefs of the night,
Led, like a murderer, (and fuch it proves !)
Strays (wretched rover!) o'er the pleafing Past
In queft of wretchedness perversely strays;
And finds all defart now; and meets the ghofts
Of my departed joys; a num'rous train!
I rue the riches of my former fate;
Sweet comfort's blasted clusters I lament;
I tremble at the bleffings once fo dear;
And ev'ry pleasure pains me to the heart.
Yet why complain? or why complain for one?
Hangs out the fun his luftre but for me,
The fingle man? Are angels all befide?
I mourn for millions: 'Tis the common lot;
In this fhape, or in that, has fate entail'd
The mother's throes on all of woman born,
Not more the children, than fure heirs, of pain
War, Famine, Peft, Volcano, Storm, and Fire,
Inteftine broils, oppreffion, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple brafs, befiege mankind.
God's image difinherited of day,

Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a fun was made.
There, beings deathless as their haughty lord,

Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life;

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And plow the winter's wave, and reap defpair.
Some, for hard masters, broken under arms,
In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,
Beg bitter bread thro' realms their valour fav'd,
If fo the tyrant, or his minion, doom.

Want, and incurable difeafe, (fell pair!)
On hopeless multitudes remorfeless feize
At once; and make a refuge of the grave.
How groaning bofpitals eject their dead!
What numbers groan for fad admiffion there!
What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed,,
Solicit the cold hand of charity!

To fhock us more, folicit it in vain!

Ye filken fons of pleasure ! fince in pains
You rue more modish visits, vifit here,

And breathe from your debauch: Give, and reduce
Surfeit's dominion o'er you: But fo great
Your impudence, you blush at what is right.
Happy did forrow feize on fuch alone.
Not prudence can defend, or virtue fave;
Difeafe invades the chafteft temperance;
And punishment the guiltlefs; and alarm,
'Thro' thickest shades, pursues the fond of peace,
Man's caution often into danger turns,
And his guard falling, crushes him to death.
Not happiness itself makes good her name;
Our very wishes give us not our wish.
How diftant oft the thing we doat on most,
From that for which we doat, felicity?
The Smoothest courfe of nature has its pains;

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And trueft friends, thro' error, wound our rest,
Without misfortune, what calamities ?

And what hoftilities, without a foe!
Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth.
But endless is the lift of human ills,

And fighs might fooner fail, than cause to figh.
A part how small of the terraqueous globe
Is tenanted by man! the rest a waste,

Rocks, defarts, frozen feas, and burning fands.!
Wild haunts of monfters, poifons, ftings, and death..
Such is earth's melancholy map! But, far

More fad! this earth is a true map of man.
So bounded are its haughty lord's delights

To woe's wide empire; where deep troubles tofs,
Loud forrows howl, invenom'd passions bite,
Rav'nous calamities our vitals feize,

And threat'ning fate wide opens to devour.
What then am I, who forrow for myself?
In age, in infancy, from others aid.
Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind:
That, nature's firft, laft leffon to mankind;
The selfish heart deferves the pain it feels.
More gen'rous forrow, while it finks, exalts;
And conscious virtue mitigates the pang.

Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me give

Swoln thought a fecond chanel; who divide,
They weaken too, the torrent of their grief.
Take then, O World! thy much-indebted tear:
How fad a fight is human happiness,

To those whofe thought can pierce beyond an hour!

O thou t

O thou! whate'er thou art, whofe heart exults!
Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate?

I know thou wouldst; thy pride demands it from me.
Let thy pride pardon, what thy nature needs,
The falutary cenfure of a friend.

Thou happy wretch! by blindness thou art bleft;
By dotage dandled to perpetual fmiles.

Know, fmiler! at thy peril art thou pleas'd;
Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain.
Misfortune, like a creditor severe,
But rifes in demand for her delay;
She makes a fcourge of paft profperity,
To fting thee more, and double thy distress.
LORENZO, fortune makes her court to thee.
Thy fond heart dances, while the Syren fings.
Dear is thy welfare; think me not unkind;
I would not damp, but to fecure thy joys.
Think not that fear is facred to the storm:
Stand on thy guard against the smiles. of fate.
Is heav'n tremendous in its frowns? Moft fure;
And in its favours formidable too :

Its favours here are trials, not rewards;
A call to duty, not discharge from care;
And fhould alarm us, full as much as woes ;
Awake us to their caufe, and confequence;
And make us tremble, weigh'd with our defert;
Awe nature's tumult, and chastise her joys,
Left while we clafp, we kill them; nay, invert
To worse than fimple mifery, their charms.
Revolted joys, like foes in civil war,

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