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And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch,
Whom matrons now, of character unsmirch'd,
And chaste themselves, are not asham'd to own.
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time,
Not to be pass'd: and she, that had renounc'd
Her sex's honour, was renounc'd herself

By all that priz'd it; not for prud'ry's sake,
But dignity's, resentful of the wrong.

'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif, Desirous to return, and not receiv'd;

But was an wholesome rigour in the main,

And taught th' unblemish'd to preserve

That purity, whose loss was loss of all.

with care

Men, too, were nice in honour in those days, And judg'd offenders well. Then he that sharp'd, And pocketted a prize by fraud obtain'd,

Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that sold

His country, or was slack when she requir'd
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch,

Paid, with the blood that he had basely spar'd,

The price of his default. But now-yes, now

We are become so candid and so fair,

So lib'ral in construction, and so rich

In Christian charity, (good-natur'd age!)

That they are safe, sinners of either sex,

Transgress what laws they may.

well bred,

Well dress'd,

Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough
Το pass us readily through ev'ry door.
Hypocrisy, detest her as we may,

(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet)
May claim this merit still-that she admits
The worth of what she mimics with such care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applause;

But she has burnt her mask, not needed here, Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts And specious semblances have lost their use.

I was a stricken deer, that left the herd Long since; with many an arrow deep infixt,

My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by one who had himself
Been hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.
With gentle force soliciting the darts,

He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me

live.

Since then, with few associates, in remote
And silent woods I wander, far from those
My former partners of the peopled scene;
With few associates, and not wishing more.
Here much I ruminate, as much I may,

With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come.
I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray
Each in his own delusions; they are lost
In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd
And never won. Dream after dream ensues;

And still they dream that they shall still succeed,

And still are disappointed. Rings the world
With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind,

And add two thirds of the remaining half,

And find the total of their hopes and fears
Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay
As if created only like the fly,

That spreads his motley wings in th' eye of noon,
To sport their season, and be seen no more.
The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise,
And pregnant with discov'ries new and rare,
Some write a narrative of wars, and feats
Of heroes little known; and call the rant
An history: describe the man, of whom
His own coevals took but little note;

And paint his person, character, and views,

As they had known him from his mother's womb.
They disentangle from the puzzled skein,
In which obscurity has wrapp'd them up,
The threads of politic and shrewd design,
That ran through all his purposes, and charge

His mind with meanings that he never had,

Or, having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore

The solid earth, and from the strata there

Extract a register, by which we learn,

That he who made it, and reveal'd its daté
To Moses, was mistaken in its age.

Some, more acute, and more industrious still,
Contrive creation; travel nature up

To the sharp peak of her sublimest height,
And tell us whence the stars; why some are fix'd,
And planetary some; what gave them first
Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light.
Great contest follows, and much learned dust.
Involves the combatants; each claiming truth,
And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend
The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp,
In playing tricks with nature, giving laws
To distant worlds, and trifling in their own.
Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums

Should ever tease the lungs and blear the sight

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