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And, feeling, fly to Labour for his Cure;

Not, blund'ring, split on Idleness for Eafe.

Life's Cares are Comforts; fuch by Heav'n defign'd;
He that has none, must make them, or be wretched.
Cares are Employments; and without Employ

The Soul is on a Rack; the Rack of Rest,

To Souls most adverse; Action all their Joy.

Here, then, the Riddle, mark'd above, unfolds;
Then Time turns Torment, when Man turns a Fool.
We rave, we wrestle with Great Nature's Plan ;
We thwart the Deity; and 'tis decreed,

Who thwart His Will, fhall contradict their own.
Hence our unnatural Quarrel with ourselves;
Our Thoughts at Enmity; our Bofom-broil;
We push Time from us, and we with Him back;
Lavish of Luftrums, and yet fond of Life;

Life we think long, and fhort; Death feek, and fhun;
Body and Soul, like peevish Man and Wife,,
United jar, and yet are loth to part.

Oh the dark Days of Vanity! while Here,

How taftelefs! and how Terrible, when gone!
Gone? they ne'er go; when paft, they haunt us ftill
The Spirit walks of ev'ry Day deceas'd;

And smiles an Angel, or a Fury frowns.
Nor Death, nor Life, delight us. If Time paft,
And Time poffeft, both pain us, what can please?
That which the Deity to please ordain'd,
Time us'd. The Man who confecrates his Hours
By vig'rous Effort, and an honest Aim,

At once he draws the Sting of Life and Death;
He walks with Nature; and her Paths are Peace.
Our Error's Caufe and Cure are feen: See next
Time's Nature, Origin, Importance, Speed;
And thy great Gain from urging his Career.-
All-fenfual Man, becaufe untouch'd, unfeen,

He

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He looks on Time as nothing. Nothing else
Is truly Man's; 'tis Fortune's.-Time's a God.
Haft Thou ne'er heard of Time's Omnipotence?
For, or againft, what Wonders can he do !
And will: To ftand blank Neuter he difdains.
Not on these Terms was Time (Heav'n's Stranger!) fent
On his important Embaffy to Man.

LORENZO! no: On the long-deftin'd Hour,
From everlafting Ages growing ripe,

That memorable Hour of wond'rous Birth,
When the Dread Sire, on Emanation bent,
And big with Nature, rifing in his Might,
Call'd forth Creation (for then Time was born),
By Godhead ftreaming thro' a thousand Worlds;
Not on these Terms, from the great Days of Heaven,
From old Eternity's myfterious Orb,

Was Time cut off, and caft beneath the Skies;
The Skies, which watch him in his new Abode,
Measuring his Motions by revolving Spheres;
That Horologe Machinery Divine.

Hours, Days, and Months, and Years, his Children, play,
Like num'rous Wings around him, as he flies:

Or, rather, as unequal Plumes they fhape

His ample Pinions, fwift as darted Flame,
To gain his Goal, to reach his antient Reft,
And join anew Eternity his Sire;

In his Immutability to neft,

When Worlds, that count his Circles now, unhing'd, (Fate the loud Signal founding) headlong rush 'To timeless Night and Chaos, whence they rose. Why fpur the Speedy? Why with Levities

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New-wing thy fhort, fhort Day's too rapid Flight? Know'ft thou, or what thou dost, or what is done? Man flies from Time, and Time from Man; too foon In fad Divorce this double Flight must end;

And

And then, where are we? where, LORENZO! then
Thy Sports thy Pomps ?-I grant thee, in a State
Not unambitious; in the ruffled Shroud,

Thy Parian Tomb's triumphant Arch beneath.
Has Death his Fopperies? Then well may Life
Put on her Plume, and in her Rainbow fhine.
Ye well-array'd! Ye Lilies of our Land!
Ye Lilies Male! who neither toil, nor spin,
(As Sifter Lilies might) if not fo wise
As Solomon, more fumptuous to the Sight!
-Ye Delicate! who nothing can support,
Yourselves moft infupportable! for whom
The Winter Rose must blow, the Sun put on
A brighter Beam in Leo; filky-soft

Favonius breathe still softer, or be chid;

And other Worlds fend Odours, Sawce, and Song,
And Robes, and Notions, fram'd in foreign Looms!
O ye LORENZOs of our Age! who deem
One Moment unamus'd, a Misery

Not made for feeble Man! who call aloud
For ev'ry Bawble, drivell'd o'er by Sense;
For Rattles, and Conceits of ev'ry Caft,
For Change of Follies, and Relays of Joy,
To drag your Patient through the tedious Length
Of a short Winter's Day-fay, Sages! fay,
Wit's Oracles! fay, Dreamers of gay Dreams!
How will you weather an eternal Night,
Where fuch Expedients fail?

O treach❜rous Confcience! while fhe feems to sleep
On Rofe and Myrtle, lull'd with Syren Song;

While fhe feems, nodding o'er her Charge, to drop
On headlong Appetite the flacken'd Rein,
And give us up to Licence, unrecall'd,
Unmarkt;-See, from behind her fecret Stand,
The fly Informer minutes ev'ry Fault,

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And her dread Diary with Horror fills.
Not the grofs A alone employs her Pen;
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy Band,

A watchful Foe! The formidable Spy,
Lift'ning, o'erhears the Whispers of our Camp:
Our dawning Purposes of Heart explores,
And steals our Embryos of Iniquity.
As all-rapacious Ufurers conceal

Their Doomsday-book from all-confuming Heirs ;
Thus, with Indulgence most severe, She treats
Us Spendthrifts of ineftimable Time;

Unnoted, notes each Moment misapply'd;

In Leaves more durable than Leaves of Brafs,
Writes our whole Hiftory; which Death fhall read
In ev'ry pale Delinquent's private Ear;

And Judgment publish; publish to more Worlds
Than this; and endless Age in Groans refound.
LORENZO, fuch that Sleeper in thy Breast!
Such is her Slumber; and her Vengeance fuch
For flighted Counfel; fuch thy future Peace!
And think'st thou ftill thou canst be wife too foon?
But why on Time fo lavish is my Song?
On this great Theme kind Nature keeps a School,
To teach her Sons Herfelf. Each Night we die,
Each Morn are born anew: Each Day, a Life!
And shall we kill each Day? If Trifling kills;
Sure Vice muft butcher. O what Heaps of Slain
Cry out for Vengeance on us! Time destroy'd

Is Suicide, where more than Blood is fpilt.

Time flies, Death urges, Knells call, Heav'n invites,
Hell threatens : All exerts; in Effort, All;
More than Creation labours !-Labours more?
And is there in Creation, what, amidst
This Tumult Univerfal, wing'd Dispatch,
And ardent Energy, fupinely yawns ?

Man

Man fleeps; and Man alone; and Man, whofe Fate,

Fate, irreversible, intire, extreme,

Endless, hair-hung, breeze-fhaken, o'er the Gulph
A Moment trembles; drops! and Man, for whom
All elfe is in Alarm; Man, the fole Cause
Of this furrounding Storm! And yet he fleeps,
As the Storm rock'd to Reft.-Throw Years away?
Throw Empires, and be blameless. Moments feize;
Heav'n's on their Wing: A Moment we may wish,
When Worlds want Wealth to buy. Bid Day ftand ftill,
Bid him drive back his Car, and reimport
The Period paft, regive the given Hour.
LORENZO, more than Miracles we want;
LORENZO-O for Yesterdays to come!

Such is the Language of the Man arvake;
His Ardour fuch, for what oppreffes Thee.
And is his Ardour vain, LORENZO? No;
That more than Miracle the Gods indulge;
To-day is Yesterday return'd; return'd
Full-pow'r'd to cancel, expiate, raise, adorn,
And reinftate us on the Rock of Peace!
Let it not fhare its Predeceffor's Fate;
Nor, like its elder Sifters, die a Fool.
Shall it evaporate in Fume? Fly off
Fuliginous, and ftain us deeper ftill?
Shall we be poorer for the Plenty pour'd?
More wretched for the Clemencies of Heaven?

Where fhall I find Him? Angels! tell me where.
You know him: He is near you: Point him out :
Shall I fee Glories beaming from his Brow?
Or trace his Footsteps by the rifing Flowers?
Your golden Wings, now hov'ring o'er him, shed
Protection; now, are waving in Applaufe
To that bleft Son of Forefight! Lord of Fate!

That

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