"Can Nature in a plainer voice proclaim
"Pleasure and glory, the chief good of inan ?"""
Can Pride and Senfuality rejoice?
From purity of thought, all pleasure springs ;-
And from an humble fpirit, all our peace.
Ambition, pleafure! let us talk of thefe:
Of thefe, the Porch and Academy talk'd ; ⠀
Of these each following age had much to fay;
Yet unexhausted, ftill, the needful theme.
Who talks of thefe, to mankind all at once
He talks; for where the faint from either free?
Are these thy refuge?-No; these rush upon thee;
Thy vitals feize, and vulture-like, devour.
I'll try if I can pluck thee from thy rock,
PROMOTHEUS! from this barren ball of earth.
If Reason can unchain thee, thou art free.
And, firft, thy Caucafus, Ambition, calls;
Mountain of torments; eminence of woes!
Of courted woes! and courted through mistake!
"Tis not ambition charms thee; 'tis a cheat
Will make thee ftart, as H- at his Moor.
Doft grafp at greatness? First know what it is:
Think'st thou thy greatnefs in diftinction lies?
Not in the feather, wave it e'er fo high,
By Fortune ftuck to mark us from the throng,
Is glory lodg'd: Tis lodg'd in the reverfe;
In that which joins, in that which equals all,
The monarch and his flave -" a deathlefs foul,
"Unbounded profpect, and immortal kin,
"A Father God, and brothers in the fkies ;"
Elder, indeed, in time; but lefs remote
In excellence, perhaps, than thought by man:
Why greater what can fall, than what can rife?
If till delirious, now, LORENZO! go;
And with thy full-blown brothers of the World,
Throw fcorn around thee; caft it on thy flaves;
Thy flaves, and equals: How fcorn, caft on them,
Rebounds on thee! If man is mean, as man,
Art thou a God? If Fortune makes him fo,
Beware the confequence: A maxim that,
Which draws a monftrous picture of mankind; .
Where in the drapery, the man is loft;
Externals flutt'ring, and the foul forgot:
Thy greatest glory when difpos'd to boast,
Boaft that aloud. in which thy fervants fhare.
We wifely ftrip the fteed we mean to buy:
Judge we, in their caparifons, of men?
It nought avails thee, where, but what thou art;
All the diftinctions of this little life
Are quite cutaneous, foreign to the man.
When, through death's ftreights, Earth's fubtle ferpents. creep,
Which wriggle into wealth, or climb renown,
As crooked Satan the forbidden tree,
They leave their party-colour'd robe behind,
All that now glitters, while they rear aloft ›
Their brazen crefts, and hifs at us below.
Of Fortune's fucus ftrip them yet alive;
Strip them of body too; nay, closer still,
Away with all, but moral, in their minds;
And let what then remains, impose their name;
Pronounce them weak, or worthy great or mean.
How mean that fnuff of glory Fortune lights,
And Death puts out! Doft thou demand a teft,
A teft, at once infallible, and short,
Of real greatnefs? That man greatly lives,
Whate'er his fate, or fame, who greatly dies,
High-flufh'd with hope, where heroes fhall defpair.
If this a true criterion, many courts,
Illuftrious, might afford but few grandees.
Th' Almighty, from his throne, on earth furveys
Nought greater than an honeft, humble heart!
An humble heart, his refidence! pronounc'd
His fecond feat; and rival to the fkies.
The private path, the fecret acts of men,
If noble, far the nobleft of our lives!
How far above LORENZO's glory fits
Th' illuftrious mafter of a name unknown ?.
Whofe worth unrivall'd, and unwitnefs'd, loves
Life's facred fhades where gods converfe with men ;
And Peace, beyond the world's conception, fmiles!
As thou (now dark) before we part, fhalt fee.
But thy great foul this skulking glory scorns.
LORENZO'S fick, but when LORENZO's feen;
And, when he fhrugs at public bus'nefs, lies..
Deny'd the public eye, the public voice,
As if he liv'd on others breath, he dies.
Fain would he make the world his pedestal,
Mankind, the gazers; the fole figure he.
Knows he, that mankind praise against their will,
And mix as much detraction as they can ?
Knows he, that faithlefs fame her whisper has,
As well as trumpet? that his vanity
Is fo much tickled, from not hearing all?
Knows this all-knower, that from itch of praife,
Or, from an itch more fordid, when he fhines,
Taking his country by five hundred ears,
Senates at once admire him, and defpife,
With modeft laughter lining loud applaufe,
Which makes the fmile more mortal to his fame?
His fame, which (like the mighty CÆSAR) crown'd
With laurels, in full fenate, greatly falls,
By feeming friends, that honour and destroy.
We rife in glory, as we fink in pride:
Where boating ends, there dignity begins:
And yet mistaken, beyond all mistake,
The blind LORENZO's proud-of being proud;
And dreams hinfelf afcending in his fall."
An eminence, though fancied, turns the brain;
All vice wants hellebore; but, of all vice,
Pride loudeft calls, and for the largest bowl;
Because, all other vice unlike, it flies,
In fact, the point, in fancy moft purfu'd.
Who court applause, oblige the world in this!
They gratify man's paffion to refufe?
Superior honour, when affum'd is loft;
E'en good men turn banditti, and rejoice,
Like Kouli-Kan, in plunder of the proud.
Though fomewhat difconcerted, steady still
To the world's caufe, with half a face of joy,
LORENZO cries- "Be, then Ambition caft;
"Ambition's dearer far ftands unimpeach❜d.
Gay Pleafure! Proud Ambition is her flave; "For her, he foars at great, and hazards ill; "For her, he fights, and bleeds, or overcomes; "And paves his way with crowns to reach her fmile: "Who can refiit her charms!". -Or fhould? Lo
What mortal shall refift, where angels yield?
Pleafure's the mistress of etherial pow'rs;
For her contend the rival gods above:
Pleafure's the mistress of the world below;
And well it is for man, that Pleafure charms.
How would all ftagnate, but for Pleafure's ray!
How would the frozen ftream of action cease!
What is the pulse of this so busy world?
The love of pleasure: That through ev'ry vein,
Throws motion, warmth; and fhuts out death from
Tho' various are the tempers of mankind,
Pleafure's gay family holds all in chains.
Some most affect the black, and fome the fair;
Some honeft pleasures court; and fome obfcene.
Pleafures obfcene are various, as the throng
Of paffions, that can err in human hearts;
Miftake their objects, or tranfgrefs their bounds.
Think you there's but one whoredom? Whoredom all,
But when our reafon licences delight.
Doft doubt, LORENZO? thou fhalt doubt no more.
Thy father chides thy gallantries; yet hugs
An ugly common harlot in the dark,
A rank adulterer with others' gold;
And that hag, Vengeance, in a corner, charms.
Hatred her brothel has, as well as love,
Where horrid Epicures débauch in blood,
Whate'er the motive pleasure is the mark;
For her, the black affaffin draws his sword; -
For her, dark statefmen trim their midnight lamp,
To which no fingle facrifice
may fall:
For her, the faint abftains; the miser starves!
The Stoic proud, for pleasure, pleasure scorn d;
For her Affliction's daughters grief indulge,
And find, or hope, a luxury in tears:
For her, guilt, shame, toil, danger, we defy;
And, with an aim voluptuous, rush on death,
Thus univerfal her defpotic pow'r.
And as her empire wide, her praise is juft.
Patron of pleasure! doater on delight!
I am thy rival; pleasure I profefs;
Pleasure, the purpose of my gloomy fong.
Pleasure is nought but Virtue's gayer name;
I wrong her ftill, I rate her worth too low;
Virtue the root, and pleasure is the flow'r;
And honeft EPICURUS foes were fools.
But this founds harsh, and gives the wife offence;
If o'erftrain'd wifdom ftill retains the name.
How knits Aufterity her cloudy brow,
And blames, as bold, and hazardous, the praife
Of pleafure, to mankiud, unprais'd, too dear!
Ye modern Stoics! hear my foft reply:
Their fenfes men will truft: We can't impofe;
Or, if we could, is impofition right?
Own honey fweet; but, owning, add this fting,
"When mix'd with poifon, it is deadly too."
Truth never was indebted to a lie.
Is nought but virtue to be prais'd, as good?
Why then is health preferr'd before difeafe?
What nature loves, is good, without our leave.
And where no future drawback cries, " Beware ;”
Pleafure, though not from virtue, should prevail;
'Tis balm to life, and gratitude to Heav'n.
How cold our thanks for bounties unenjoy'd!
The love of pleafure is man's eldeft-born,
Born in his cradle, living to his tomb;
Wifdom, her younger fifter, though more grave,
Was meant to minifter, and not to mar,
Imperial Pleafure, queen of human hearts.
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