Him even the diffolute admir'd; for he

A graceful looseness when he pleas'd put on,
And laughing could inftru&t. Much had he read,
Much more had seen; he studied from the life,
And in th' original perus'd mankind..

Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life,
He pitied man: and much he pitied those
Whom falfely-fmiling fate has curs'd with means
To diffipate their days in queft of joy.
Our aim is Happiness; 'tis your's, 'tis mine,
He faid, 'tis the purfuit of all that live;
Yet few attain it, if 'twas e'er attain'd..
But they the widest wander from the mark,.
Who thro? the flow'ry paths of faunt'ring Joy
Seek this coy Goddess; that from stage to stage -
Invites us ftill, but fhifts as we purfue..

For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings.. To counterpoife itself, relentless Fate

Forbids that we thro' gay voluptuous wilds

Should ever roam: And were the Fates more kind, Our narrow luxuries would foon be ftale.

Were thefe exhauftlefs, Nature would grow fick,
And cloy'd with pleasure, fqueamishly complain
That all was vanity, and life a dream.
Let nature reft; Be bufy for yourself,
And for your friend; be bufy even in vain,
Rather than teize her fated appetites.
Who never fafts, no banquet e'er enjoys;
Who never toils or watches, never fleeps.
Let nature reft: And when the taste of joy
Grows keen, indulge; but fhun fatiety.
'Tis not for mortals always to be bleft.

But him the leaft the dull or painful hours
Of life opprefs, whom fober Senfe conducts,
And Virtue thro' this labyrinth we tread.
Virtue and Senfe I mean not to disjoin;
Virtue and Senfe are one: and trust me, he
Who has not virtue is not truly wife.

Virtue (for mere good-nature is a fool)
Is fense and spirit, with humanity:

'Tis fometimes angry, and its frown confounds;
"Tis even vindictive, but in vengeance juft.

Knaves fain would laugh at it; fome great ones dare;

But at his heart the most undaunted fon

Of fortune dreads its name and awful charms.

To nobleft ufes this determines wealth:

This is the folid pomp of profperous days;

The

peace and shelter of adverfity.

And if you pant for glory, build your fame
On this foundation, which the secret shock
Defies of Envy and all-fapping Time.
The gaudy glofs of Fortune only strikes
The vulgar eye: The fuffrage of the wise,
The praise that's worth ambition, is attain'd
By fense alone, and dignity of mind.

Virtue the ftrength and beauty of the foul,
Is the best gift of heaven: a happiness
That even above the fmiles and frowns of fate
Exalts great Nature's favourites: a wealth
That ne'er encumbers, nor to bafer hands
Can be transferr'd: it is the only good
Man justly boasts of, or can call his own.
Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd ;
Or dealt by chance, to fhield a lucky knave,

Or

Or throw a cruel fun-fhine on a fool.

But for one end, one much-neglected ufe,
Are riches worth your care (for Nature's wants.
Are few, and without opulence supplied)
This noble end is, to produce the Soul:
To fhew the virtues in their faireft light;
To make Humanity the Minifter

Of bounteous Providence; and teach the breaft
That generous luxury the Gods enjoy.

Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly Sage
Sometimes declaim'd. Of Right and Wrong he taught
Truths as refin'd as ever Athens heard;

And (ftrange to tell!) he practis'd what he preach'd.

N frolick's hour, ere ferious thought had birth,

IN

There was a time, my dear CORNWALLIS, when

The Mufe would take me on her airy wing
And waft to views romantic; there prefent
Some motly vifion, fhade and fun: the cliff
O'erhanging, fparkling brooks, and ruins grey:
Bade me meanders trace, and catch the form
Of varying clouds, and rainbows learn to paint.
Sometimes ambition, brushing by, would twitch
My mantle, and with winning look fublime
Allure to follow. What tho' fteep the track,
Her mountain's top would overpay, when climb'd,
The fcaler's toil; her temple there was fine,

And

And lovely thence the profpects. She cou'd tell
Where laurels grew, whence many a wreath antique;
But more advis'd to fhun the barren twig,
(What is immortal verdure without fruit?)

And woo fome thriving art: her num'rous mines
Were open to the fearcher's skill and pains.

Caught by th' harangue, heart beat, and flutt'ring pulfe Sounded irregular marches to be gone

What, pause a moment when Ambition calls?
No, the blood gallops to the diftant goal,
And throbs to reach it. Let the lame fit ftill.
When Fortune gentle, at the hill's verge extreme,
Array'd in decent garb, but fomewhat thin,
Smiling approach'd; and what occafion, ask'd,
Of climbing; She already provident
Had cater'd well, if ftomach cou'd digeft
Her viands, and a palate not too nice:
Unfit she said, for perilous attempt;

That manly limb requir'd, and finew tough.
She took, and laid me in a vale remote,

Amid the gloomy fcene of fir and yew,

On poppy beds, where Morpheus ftrew'd the ground:
Obfcurity her curtain round me drew,
And Syren Sloth a dull quietus fung.
Sithence no fairy lights, no quick'ning ray,
Nor ftir of pulfe, nor objects to entice
Abroad the spirits: but the cloyfter'd heart
Sits fquat at home, like pagod in a nitch
Obfcure, or grandees with nod-watching eye,
And folded arms, in prefence of the throne,
Turk, or Indoftan.-Cities, forums, courts
And prating fanhedrims and drumming wars,

Affect

Affect no more than ftories told to bed

Lethargic, which at intervals the fick

Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again.
Instead of converfe and variety,

The fame trite round, the fame ftale filent fcene:
Such are thy comforts, bleffed Solitude!-

But Innocence is there, but Peace all kind,
And fimple quiet with her downy couch,

Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapse of streams,
And faunter with a book, and warbling Mufe.
In praise of hawthorns-Life's whole bufinefs this!.
Is it to bask i' th' fun? if fo a fnail

Were happy crawling on a fouthern wall.
Why fits content upon a cottage-fill
At eventide, and bleffeth the coarse meal
In footy corner? why fweet flumber wait
Th' hard pallet? not because from haunt remote
Sequefter'd in a dingle's bushy lap:

"Tis labour makes the peafant's fav'ry fare,
And works out his repose: for ease must ask
The leave of diligence to be enjoy'd..

Oh! liften not to that enchantress Eafe With feeming fmile; her palatable cup By ftanding grows infipid; and beware. The bottom, for there's poifon in the lees. What health impair'd, and crowds inactive maim'd!. What daily martyrs to her fluggish caufe! Lefs ftrict devoir the Rufs and Perfian claim Defpotic; and as fubjects long inur'd To fervile burthen, grow fupine and tame,.. So fares it with our fov'reign and her train. What tho' with lure fallacious fhe pretend From worldly bondage to fet free, what gain