Could find as well the cause of this unrest,
And all this burden lodg'd within the breast;
Sure they would change their course, nor live as now, Uncertain what to wish, or what to vow.
Uneafy both in country and in town,
They fearch a place to lay their burden down.
One, reftlefs in his palace, walks abroad,
And vainly thinks to leave behind the load:
But ftraight returns; for he's as reftlefs there;
And finds there's no relief in open air.
Another to his villa would retire,
And fpurs as hard as if it were on fire;
No fooner enter'd at his country door,
But he begins to stretch, and yawn, and fnore;
Or feeks the city which he left before.
Thus man o'erworks his weary will,
To fhun himself, and to shake off his ill:
The shaking fit returns, and hangs upon him ftill.
No profpect of repofe, nor hope of ease;
The wretch is ignorant of his disease ;
Which known would all his fruitless trouble fpare;
For he would know the world not worth his care:
Then would he fearch more deeply for the caufe;
And ftudy Nature well, and Nature's laws :
For in this moment lies not the debate,
But on our future, fix'd, eternal state;
That never-changing ftate, which all must keep,
Whom death has doom'd to everlasting sleep.
Why are we then fo fond of mortal life,
Befet with dangers, and maintain'd with ftrife?
A life, which all our care can never fave;
One fate attend us, and one common grave.
Befides we tread but a perpetual round;
We ne'er ftrike out, but beat the former ground,
And the fame maukish joys in the fame track are found.
For ftill we think an absent bleffing beft,
Which cloys, and is no bleffing when poffeft;
A new arifing with expels it from the breaft.
The fev'rish thirst of life increases still;
We call for more and more, and never have our fill;
Yet know not what to-morrow we shall try,
What dregs of life in the last draught may lie:
Nor, by the longest life we can attain,
One moment from the length of death we gain;
For all behind belongs to his eternal reign.
When once the fates have cut the mortal thread,
The man as much to all intents is dead,
Who dies to-day, and will as long be fo,
As he who dy'd a thousand years ago.
The latter Part of the FOURTH BOOK of
Concerning the Nature of LOVE,
Beginning at this line,
Sic igitur veneris qui telis accipit ictum, &c.
HUS, therefore, he, who feels the fiery dart Of strong defire transfix his amorous heart, Whether fome beauteous boy's alluring face, Or lovelier maid, with unrefifting grace, From her each part the winged arrow fends, From whence he firft was ftruck he thither tends; Restless he roams, impatient to be freed,
And eager to inject the fprightly feed.
For fierce defire does all his mind employ,
And ardent love affures approaching joy.
Such is the nature of that pleafing smart,
Whofe burning drops diftil upon the heart,
The fever of the foul fhot from the fair,
And the cold ague of fucceeding care.
If abfent her idea ftill appears,
And her sweet name is chiming in your ears.
But ftrive those pleafing fantoms to remove,
And fhun th' aerial images of love,
That feed the flame: when one molefts thy mind.
Discharge thy loins on all the leaky kind;
For that's a wifer way, than to restrain
Within thy fwelling nerves that hoard of pain.
For ev'ry hour fome deadlier symptom shews,
And by delay the gathering venom grows,
When kindly applications are not us'd;
The fcorpion, love, muft on the wound be bruis'd:
On that one object 'tis not safe to stay,
But force the tide of thought fome other way:
The fquander'd fpirits prodigally throw,
And in the common glebe of nature sow.
Nor wants he all the blifs, that lovers feign,
Who takes the pleasure, and avoids the pain;
For purer joys in purer health abound,
And lefs affect the fickly than the found.
When love its utmoft vigour does employ,
Ey'n then 'tis but a reftlefs wand'ring joy:
Nor knows the lover in that wild excess,
With hands or eyes, what first he would poffefs;
But ftrains at all, and, faft'ning where he trains,
Too closely preffes with his frantic pains;
With biting kiffes hurts the twining fair,
Which fhews his joys imperfect, unfincere:
For, ftung with inward rage, he flings around,
And strives t' avenge the smart on that which gave the
But love thofe eager bitings does refrain,
And mingling pleasure mollifies the pain.
For ardent hope ftill flatters anxious grief,
And fends him to his foe to feek relief:
Which yet the nature of the thing denies ;
For love, and love alone of all our joys,
By full poffeffion does but fan the fire;
The more we ftill enjoy, the more we ftill defire.
Nature for meat and drink provides a space,
And, when receiv'd, they fill their certain place:
Hence thirit and hunger may be fatisfy'd;
But this repletion is to love deny'd:
Form, feature, colour, whatsoe'er delight
Provokes the lover's endless appetite,
Thefe fill no fpace, nor can we thence remove
With lips, or hands, or all our inftruments of love:
In our deluded grasp we nothing find,
But thin aerial fhapes, that fleet before the mind.
As he, who in a dream with drought is curft,
And finds no real drink to quench his thirst;
Runs to imagin'd lakes his heat to fleep,
And vainly fwills and labours in his fleep:
So love with fantoms cheats our longing eyes,
Which hourly feeing never satisfies:
Our hands pull nothing from the parts they ftrain,
But wander o'er the lovely limbs in vain:
Nor when the youthful pair more closely join,
When hands in hands they lock, and thighs in thighs
they twine,
Juft in the raging foam of full defire,
When both prefs on, both murmur, both expire,
They gripe, they fqueeze, their humid tongues they dart,
As each would force their way to t'other's heart:
In vain; they only cruize about the coaft;
For bodies cannot pierce, nor be in bodies loft;
As fure they ftrive to be, when both engage
In that tumultuous momentary rage;
So tangled in the nets of love they lie,
Till man diffolves in that excess of joy.
Then, when the gather'd bag has burit its way,
And ebbing tides the flacken'd nerves betray,
A paufe enfues; and nature nods a-while,
Till with recruited rage new spirits boil;
And then the fame vain violence returns;
With flames renew'd th' erected furnace burns.
Again they in each other would be loft,
But ftill by adamantine bars are croft.
All ways they try, fuccefslefs all they prove,
To cure the secret fore of ling'ring love.
Befides
They waste their ftrength in the venereal ftrife,
And to a woman's will enflave their life;
Th' eftate runs out, and mortgages are made;
All offices of friendship are decay'd;
Their fortune ruin'd, and their fame betray'd,
Affyrian ointment from their temples flows,
And diamond buckles fparkle in their fhoes.
The chearful emerald twinkle on their hands,
With all the luxury of foreign lands:
And the blue coat, that with imbroid'ry fhines,
Is drunk with fweat of their o'er-labour'd loins.
Their frugal father's gains they misemploy,
And turn to point, and pearl, and ev'ry female toy.
French fashions, coftly treats are their delight;
The park by day, and plays and balls by night.
For in the fountain, where their sweets are fought,
Some bitter bubbles up, and poifons all the draught.
Firft guilty confcience does the mirror bring,
Then tharp remorfe fhoots out her angry fting;
And anxious thoughts, within themselves at ftrife,
Upbraid the long, mif-fpent, luxurious life.
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