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Thou wilt not take the trouble to be bleft.
Falfe joys, indeed, are born from want of thought;
From thought's full bent, and energy, the true :
And that demands a mind in equal poize,
Remote from gloomy grief, and glaring joy.
Much joy not only fpeaks fmall happiness,
But happiness that shortly muft expire.
Can joy, unbottom'd in reflection, ftand?
And, in a tempeft, can reflection live?
Can joy, like thine, fecure itself an hour?
Can joy, like thine, meet accident unshock'd?
Or ope the door to honeft poverty?

Or talk with threat'ning death, and not turn pale ?
In fuch a world, and fuch a nature, thefe --
Are needful fundamentals of delight:
Thefe fundamentals give delight indeed;;
Delight, pure, delicate, and durable;
Delight, unfhaken, mafculine, divine;
A conftant, and a found, but ferious joy.
Is joy the daughter of severity?.
It is: But far my doctrine from fevere.
"Rejoice for ever;" It becomes a man;
Exalts, and fets him nearer to the gods.
"Rejoice for ever," Nature cries, "Rejoice;"
And drinks to man in her nectareous cuf,

Mix'd up

of delicates for ev'ry sense;

To the great Founder of the bounteous feast,
Drinks glory, gratitude, eternal praise;

And he that will not pledge her, is a churl.
Ill firmly to fupport, good fully taste,
Is the whole fcience of felicity.

Yet fparing pledge: Her bowl is not the best
Mankind can boast." A rational repast;
"Exertion, vigilance, a mind in arms,
"A military difcipline of thought,
"To foil temptation in the doubtful field;
"And ever-waking ardour for the right."
'Tis thefe, first give, then guard, a cheerful heart.
Nought that is right, think little; well aware,

What Reafon bids, Gon bids: By His command,
How aggrandiz'd the smallest thing we do!
Thus, nothing is infipid to the wife;
To thee, infipid all, but what is mad;
Joys feafon'd high, and tafting strong of guilt.
"Mad! (thou reply'ft, with indignation fir'd):
"Of ancient fages proud to tread the steps,
"I follow Nature,"-Follow Nature ftill,
But look it be thine own. Is confcience, then,
No part of Nature? Is fhe not fupreme?
Thou regicide! O raise her from the dead!
Then follow Nature; and resemble God.
When, fpite of confcience, pleasure is purfu'd,
Man's nature is unnaturally pleas'd;
And what's unnatural, is painful too
At intervals, and must disgust ev'n thee!

The fact thou know'ft, but not, perhaps, the cause.
Virtue's foundations with the world's were laid;
Heav'n mix'd her with our make, and twisted clofe
Her facred int'refts with the ftrings of life.
Who breaks her awful mandate, fhocks himself,
His better felf: And is it greater pain,
Our foal fhould murmur, or our dust repine?
And one, in their eternal war muft bleed.

If one muft fuffer, which should least be spar'd?
The pains of mind furpafs the pains of fense:
Afk, then, the gout, what torment is in guilt.
The joys of fenfe to mental joys are mean:
Senfe on the prefent. only feeds; the foul.
Ön paft, and future, forages for joy.

'Tis her's, by retrofpect, thro' timě to range;
And, forward, time's great fequel to furvey.
Could human courts take vengeance on the mind,
Axes might ruft, and racks, and gibbets, fall:
Guard, then, thy mind, and leave the reft to fate.
LORENZO! wilt thou never be a man?
The man is dead, who for the body lives,
Lur'd, by the beating of his pulfe, to lift
With ev'ry luft that wars against his peace,

And fets him quite at varience with himself.
Thyfelf, firft, know; then love: A self there is
Of virtue fond, that kindles at her charms.
A self there is as fond of ev'ry vice.
While ev'ry virtue wounds it to the heart;
Humility degrades it, juftice robs,

Blefs'd bounty beggars it, fair truth betrays,
And godlike magnanimity deftroys,

This felf, when rival to the former, fcorn;
When not in competition, kindly treat,
Defend it, feed it :-But, when virtue bids,
Tofs it, or to the fowls, or to the flames,
And why? 'tis love of pleasure bids thee bleed.
Comply, or own felf-love extinct, or blind.

For, what is vice ? felf-love in a mistake;
A poor blind merchant buying joys too dear.
And virtue, what? 'tis felf-love in her wits,
Quite fkilful in the market of delight,

Self-love's good fenfe is love of that dread Pow'r,
From whom the fprings and all the can enjoy.
Other felf-love is but difguis'd felf-hate;
More mortal than the malice of our foes.

A felf-hate, now scarce felt; then felt full fore,
When being, curs'd; extinction, loud implor'd;
And ev'ry thing preferr'd to what we are.
Yet this felf-love LORENZO makes his choice;
And in this choice triumphant, boasts of joy,
How is his want of happinefs betray'd,
By difaffection to the prefent hour!
Imagination wanders far a-field;

The future pleafes: Why! the prefent pains.

"But that's a secret."Yes, which all men know; And know from thee, difcover'd unawares.

Thy ceafelefs agitation, reftlefs rolls

From cheat to cheat, impatient of a pause
What is it? tis the cradle of the foul,
From Instinct fent, to rock her in difeafe;
Which her phyfician, Reason, will not cure.
A poor expedient! yet thy beft; and while
It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too.

Such are LORENZO's wretched remedies!! The weak have remedies; the wife have joys.. Superior wifdom is Superior blifs...

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And what fure mark distinguishes the wife?
Confiftent wifdom ever wills the fame ?
Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing. -
Sick of herfelf, is folly's character;
As wifdom's is, a modeft felf-applaufe.
A change of evils is thy good fupreme; ;
Nor, but in motion, canst thou find thy reft.
Man's greatest strength is fhown in standing still..
The firft fure fymptom of a mind in health,
Is reft of heart, and pleafure felt at home.
False pleafure from abroad her joys imports
Rich from within, and felf-fuftain'd, the true.
The true is fix'd, and folid as a rock;
Slipp'ry the false, and toffing, as the wave.
This, a wild wanderer on earth, like Cain;
That, like the fabled, felf-enamour'd boy,
Home-contemplation her fupreme delight,
She dreads an interruption from without,
Smit with her own condition; and the more
Intenfe fhe gazes, ftill it charms the more.
No man is happy, till he thinks, on earth
There breathes not a more happy than himself ;
Then envy dies, and love o'erflows on all;
And love o'erflowing makes an angel bere.
Such angels all, entitled to repofe

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On Him who governs fate. Tho' tempeft frowns,
Tho' Nature shakes, how foft to lean on Heav'n!
To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!
With inward eyes, and filent as the grave,
They stand collecting ev'ry beam of thought,
Till their hearts kindle with divine delight;
For all their thoughts, like angels feen of old
In Ifrael's dream, come from, and go to, Heav'n
Hence, are they ftudious of fequefter'd scenes;
While noife and diffipation comfort thee..

Where all men happy, revellings would cease,
That opiate for inquietude within.
LORENZO! never man was truly bleft,
But it compos'd, and gave him fuch a caft,
As folly might mistake for want of joy.
A caft, unlike the triumph of the proud;
A modeft afpect, and a smile at heart.
O for a joy from thy Philander's fpring!
A fpring perennial, rifing in the breaft,
And permanent, as pure! No turbid stream
Of rapt'rous exultation fwelling high;
Which, like land-floods, impetucus, poor a while,
Then fink at once, and leave us in the mire.
What does the man, who tranfient joys prefers ?
What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream?
Vain are all fudden fallies of delight;
Convulfions of a weak diftemper'd joy.
Joy's a fixt ftate; a tenure, not a start.
Bliss there is none, but unprecarious bliis ;
That is the gem; Sell all, and purchafe that.
Why go a begging to contingencies,

Not gain'd with eafe, nor fafely lov'd, if gain'd?
At good fortuitous, draw back, and paufe;
Sufpect it; what thou can'ft enfure, enjoy;
And nought but what thou giv'ft thyfelf, is fure
Reason perpetuates joy that Reafon gives.
And makes it as immortal as herfelf:

To mortals, nought, immortal, but their worth.

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Worth, confcious worth! fhould absolutely reign;
And other joys afk leave for their reproach;
Nor unexamin'd, ever leave obtain.
Thou art all anarchy; a mob of joys
Wage war, and perifh in inteftine broils..
Not the leaft promife of internal peace!
No bofom comfort! or unborrow'd blifs;

Thy thoughts are vagabonds; all outward bound, 'Midft fands, and rocks, and ftorms, to cruise for pleafure;

If gain'd, dear-bought; and better mifs'd than gain'd

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