Is oft-times proof of wisdom, when the fault
Is obftinate, and cure beyond our reach.
Domestic happiness, thou only blifs
Of Paradife that haft furviv'd the fall!
Though few now tafte thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or, tafting, long enjoy thee; too infirm,
Or too incautious, to preferve thy sweets
Unmixt with drops of bitter, which neglect
Or temper fheds into thy cryftal cup.
Thou art the nurfe of virtue-in thine arms
She fmiles, appearing, as in truth fhe 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, ftill 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 stormy raptures never yield.
Forfaking thee, what shipwreck have we made
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown!
Till prostitution elbows us afide
In all our crowded ftreets; and fenates feem
Conven'd for purposes of empire lefs
Than to release th' adultress from her bond.
Th' adultrefs! what a theme for angry verfe!
What provocation to th' indignant heart
That feels for injur'd love! but I disdain
The naufeous task to paint her as the is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame!
No-let her pass, and, chariotted along
In guilty fplendour, shake 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 chaste themselves, are not asham'd to own.
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time,
Not to be pass'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 wholesome rigour in the main,
And taught th' unblemish'd to preserve with care
That purity, whose lofs was loss of all.
Men, too, were nice in honour in those days,
And judg'd offenders well. Then he that sharp'd,
And pocketted 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 fpar'd,
The price of his default. But now-yes, now
We are become fo candid and fo fair,
So lib'ral in conftruction, and so rich
In Chriftian charity, (good-natur'd age!)
That they are safe, finners of either sex,
Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd, well-bred,
Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough
To país 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 ftill-that she admits
The worth of what the mimics with fuch care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applaufe;
But he has burnt her mask, not needed here,
Where vice has fuch allowance, that her shifts
And fpecious femblances have loft their use.
I was a ftricken deer, that left the herd
Long fince; with many an arrow deep infixt,
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,
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 wishing 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 chase of fancied happiness, ftill woo'd
And never won. Dream after dream enfues;
And still they dream that they shall still fucceed,
And still are disappointed. Rings the world
With the vain ftir. I fum up half mankind,
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 spreads his motley wings in th' eye of noon,
To sport their season, and be seen no more.
The reft are fober dreamers, grave and wife,
And pregnant with discov'ries new and rare.
Some write a narrative of wars, and feats
Of heroes little known; and call the rant
An hiftory: 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 strata 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 ftill,
Contrive creation; travel nature up
To the tharp peak of her fublimeft height,
And tell us whence the ftars; 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
The little wick of life's poor fhallow lamp,
In playing tricks with nature, giving laws
To distant worlds, and trifling in their own.
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