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And rarely for the better; or the best,

More mortal than the common births of fate.

Each moment has its fickle, emulous

Of Time's enormous fcythe, whofe ample sweep
Strikes empires from the root; each moment plays 195
His little weapon in the narrower sphere

Of fweet domeftic comfort, and cuts down
The fairest bloom of fublunary bliss.

Blifs! fublunary blifs !-proud words, and vain!
Implicit treafon to divine decree!

A bold invafion of the rights of heaven!

I clasp'd the phantoms, and I found them air.
O had I weigh'd it ere my fond embrace!
What darts of agony had mifs'd my heart!

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Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine
To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
The fun himself by thy permiffion shines;
And, one day, thou fhalt pluck him from his sphere.
Amid fuch mighty plunder, why exhaust

Thy partial quiver on a mark fo mean?
Why thy peculiar rancour wreak'd on me?
Infatiate archer! could not one fuffice?

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Thy fhaft flew thrice; and thrice my peace was flain ;
And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had fill'd her horn.
O Cynthia why fo pale? Doft thou lament
Thy wretched neighbour? Grieve to fee thy wheel
Of ceafelefs change outwhirl'd in human life?
How wanes my borrow'd blifs! from fortunes fmile,
Precarious courtesy! not virtue's fure,
Self-given, folar ray of found delight.

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In every vary'd pofture, place, and hour,
How widow'd every thought of every joy !
Thought, bufy thought! too busy for my peace!
Through the dark poftern of time long elaps'd,
Led foftly, by the ftillness of the night,
Led, like a murderer, (and fuch it proves !)
Strays (wretched rover !) o'er the pleasing past ;
In quest of wretchedness perversely frays;
And finds all defart now; and meets the ghosts
Of my departed joys; a numerous train !
I rue the riches of my former fate;
Sweet comfort's blafted clusters I lament;
I tremble at the bleffings once fo dear;
And every pleasure pains me to the heart.

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Yet why complain? or why complain for one? 235 Hangs out the fun his luftre but for me, The fingle man? Are angels all befide? I mourn for millions: 'Tis the common lot; In this fhape, or in that, has fate entail'd The mother's throes on all of woman born, Not more the children, than fure heirs, of pain.

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War, Famine, Peft, Volcano, Storm, and Fire,

Inteftine broils, Oppreffion, with her heart
Wrapt up in triple brafs, befiege mankind.

God's image difinherited of day,

Here, plung'd in mines, forgets a fun was made.
There, beings deathlefs as their haughty lord,
Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life;
And plow the winter's wave, and reap despair.
Some, for hard masters, broken under arms,

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In

In battle lopt away, with half their limbs,

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Beg bitter bread through realms their valour fav'd,.
If fo the tyrant, or his minion, doom.
Want, and incurable difeafe, (fell pair!).
On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize
At once; and make a refuge of the grave.
How groaning hofpitals eject their dead!
What numbers groan for fad admission there!
What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed,
Solicit the cold hand of charity!

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To fhock us more, folicit it in vain!

Ye filken fons of pleasure ! fince in pains

You rue more modifh vifits, vifit here,

And breathe from your debauch: give, and reduce
Surfeit's dominion o'er you: but fo great

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Your impudence, you blush at what is right.
Happy! did forrow feize on such alone.
Not prudence can defend, or virtue fave;
Disease invades the chastest temperance;
And punishment the guiltless; and alarm,

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Through thickest shades, pursues the fond of peace.
Man's caution often into danger turns;

And his guard, falling, crushes him to death.
Not happiness itself makes good her name;

Our very

wishes gives us not our wish.

How distant oft the thing we doat on moft,
From that for which we doat, felicity!

The Smootheft course of nature has its pains;

And trueft friends, through error, wound our reft.
Without misfortune, what calamities!

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And

And what hoftilities, without a foe!

Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth.
But endless is the lift of human ills,

And fighs might sooner fail, than cause to sigh.
A part how fmall of the terraqueous globe

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Is tenanted by man! the reft a waste,
Rocks, defarts, frozen feas, and burning fands:
Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, ftings, and death.
Such is earth's melancholy map! but, far

More fad this earth is a true map of man.
So bounded are its haughty lord's delights
To wae's wide empire; where deep troubles tofs,
Loud forrow's howl, invenom'd paffions bite,
Ravenous calamities our vitals feize,
And threatening fate wide opens to devour.
What then am I, who forrow for myself!
In age, in infancy, from other's aid
Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind.
That, nature's first, last leffon to mankind;
The selfish heart deferves the pain it feels.
More generous forrow, while it finks, exalts;
And confcious virtue mitigates the pang.
Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me give
Swoln thought a fecond channel; who divide,
They weaken too, the torrent of their grief.
Take then, O World! thy much indebted tear :
How fad a fight is human happiness,

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To those whose thought can pierce beyond an hour! O thou! whate'er thou art, whose heart exults! Wouldst thou I should congratulate thy fate?

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I know thou wouldft; thy pride demands it from me.
Let thy pride pardon, what thy nature needs,
The falutary cenfure of a friend.

Thou happy wretch! by blindness thou art blest;

By dotage dandled to perpetual fmiles.

Know, fmiler! at thy peril art thou pleas'd;

Thy pleasure is the promise of thy pain.
Misfortune, like a creditor fevere,
But rifes in demand for her delay;
She makes a scourge of past profperity,
To fting thee more, and double thy distress.

Lorenzo, fortune makes her court to thee,
Thy fond heart dances, while the Syren fings.
Dear is thy welfare; think me not unkind;
I would not damp, but to fecure thy joys.
Think not that fear is facred to the ftorm:
Stand on thy guard against the fmiles of fate.

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Is heaven tremendous in its frowns? Moft fure;
And in its favours formidable too:

Its favours here are trials, not rewards;

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A call to duty, not difcharge from care;

And fhould alarm us, full as much as woes;

Awake us to their caufe and confequence;

And make us tremble, weigh'd with our desert;

Awe nature's tumult, and chastise her joys,

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Left, while we clafp, we kill them; nay, invert
To worse than fimple mifery, their charms.
Revolted joys, like foes in civil war,
Like bofom friendships to refentment four'd,

With rage envenom'd rise against our peace.

340 Beware

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