Is oft-times proof of wisdom, when the fault
Is obftinate, and cure beyond our reach.
Domestic happiness, thou only blifs
Of Paradife that has furviv'd the fall!
Though few now tafte thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or, tafting, long enjoy thee; too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preserve thy fweets
Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup.
Thou art the nurfe of virtue-in thine arms
She fmiles, appearing, as in truth she is,
Heav'n-born, and deftin'd to the skies again.
Thou art not known where pleasure is ador❜d,
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist
And wand'ring eyes, still leaning on the arm
Of novelty, her fickle frail support;
For thou art meek and conftant, hating change,
And finding, in the calm of truth-tried love,
Joys that her ftormy raptures never yield.
Forfaking thee, what fhipwreck have we made
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown!
Till proftitution elbows us afide
In all our crowded streets; and fenates feem
Conven'd for purposes of empire less
Than to release th' adultrefs from her bond.
Th' adultress! what a theme for angry verse!
What provocation to th' indignant heart
That feels for injur'd love! but I difdain
The naufeous task to paint her as she is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her fhame.
No-let her pafs, and, chariotted along
In guilty fplendor, fhake the public ways;
The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white!
And verfe of mine fhall never brand the wretch,
Whom matrons now, of character unfmirch'd,
And chafte themselves, are not afham'd to own.
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time,
Not to be pafs'd: and fhe, that had renounc'd
Her fex's honour, was renounc'd herself
By all that priz'd it; not for prud'ry's fake,
But dignity's, refentful of the wrong.
'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif,
Defirous to return, and not receiv'd;
But was an wholefome rigour in the main,
And taught th' unblemish'd to preferve with care
That purity, whofe lofs was lofs of all.
Men, too, were nice in honour in thofe days,
And judg'd offenders well. And he that sharp'd,
And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd,
Was mark'd and fhunn'd as odious. He that fold
His country, or was flack when the requir'd
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch,
Paid, with the blood that he had bafely spar'd,
The price of his default. But now
yes, now We are become fo candid and so fair, So lib'ral in construction, and fo rich In Chriftian charity, (a good-natur'd age !) · That they are fafe, finners of either sex, Tranfgrefs what laws they may. Well drefs'd, well bred, Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough To pafs us readily through ev'ry door. Hypocrify, deteft her as we may,
(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet)
May claim this merit still-that fhe admits
The worth of what the mimics with such care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applause;
But she has burnt her mask, not needed here,
Where vice has fuch allowance, that her fhifts
And fpecions femblances have loft their use.
I was a stricken deer, that left the herd Long fince; with many an arrow deep infix'd, My panting fide was charg'd, when I withdrew To feek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by one who had himself Been hurt by th' archers. In his fide he bore, And in his hands and feet, the cruel fears.
With gentle force foliciting the darts,
He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live.
Since then, with few affociates, in remote
And filent woods I wander, far from thofe
My former partners of the peopled scene;
With few affociates, and not wifhing 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 fee that all are wand'rers, gone astray
Each in his own delufions; they are loft
In chace of fancied happiness, still woo'd
And never won. Dream after dream enfues;
And ftill they dream that they shall still fucceed,
And still are disappointed. Rings the world
With the vain ftir. I fum
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 fpreads his motley wings in th' eye of noon,
To fport their feason, and be seen no more.
The reft are fober dreamers, grave and wife,
And pregnant with difcov'ries new and rare.
Some write a narrative of wars, and feats
Of heroes little known; and call the rant
An history: defcribe the man, of whom
His own coevals took but little note;
And paint his perfon, character, and views,
As they had known him from his mother's womb.
They difentangle from the puzzled skein,
In which obfcurity has wrapp'd them up,
The threads of politic and fhrewd defign,
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 folid earth, and from the ftrata there
Extract a register, by which we learn,
That he who made it, and reveal'd its date
To Mofes, was mistaken in its age.
Some, more acute, and more industrious still,
Contrive creation; travel nature up
To the fharp peak of her fublimeft height,
And tell us whence the stars; why fome are fix'd,
And planetary fome; what gave them first
Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light.
Great conteft follows, and much learned duft
Involves the combatants; each claiming truth,
And truth disclaiming both.
And thus they spend fhallow lamps
In playing tricks with nature, giving laws
To diftant worlds, and trifling in their own.
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