That feels for injur'd love! but I disdain The nauseous task to paint her as she is. Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame, No:-let her pass, and, charioted along In guilty splendour, shake the public ways; The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white, And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch Whom matrons now of character unsmirch'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 she that had renounced Her sex's honour, was renounc'd herself By all that priz'd it; not for prud'ry's sake But dignity's, resentful of the wrong. 'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif, Desirous to return and not receiv'd:
But was a wholesome rigour in the main, And taught th' unb.emish'd to preserve with care That purity, whose .oss was loss of all. Men too were nice in honour in those days, And judg'd offenders well. Then he that sharp'd,
And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd,
Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that
His country, or was slack when she requir'd His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch, Paid with the blood that he had basely spar'd The price of his default. But now-yes, now We are become so candid and so fair So lib'ral in construction, and so rich In christian charity (good natur'd age!)
That they are safe; sinners of either sex Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd well bred,
Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough, To pass as readily through ev'ry door. Hypocrisy, detest her as we may,
(And no man's hatrid ever wrong'd her yet,) May claim this merit still-that she admits The worth of what she mimics, with such care, And thus gives virtue indirect applause; But she has burnt her mask, not needed here, Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts And specious semblances have lost their use.
I was a stricken deer, that left the herd Long since. With many an arrow deep infix'd My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew To seek a tranquil death in distant shades. There was I found by one who had himself Been hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore, And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. With gentle force soliciting the darts,
He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me
Since then, with few associates, in remote And silent woods I wander, far from those My former partners of the peopled scene; With few associates, 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 see that all are wand'rers, gone astray Each in his own delusions; they are lost
In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd And never won. Dream after dream ensues; And still they dream that they shall still succeed, And still are disappointed. Rings the world With the vain stir. I sum 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
As if created only like the fly,
That spreads his motly wings in th' eye of noon, To sport their season, and be seen no more. The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise, And pregnant with discoveries new and rare. Some write a narrative of wars, and feats Of heroes little known; and call the ran⭑ A history: describe the man, of whom His own coevals took but little note
And paint his person, character, and views, As they had known him from his mother's
They disentangle from the puzzled skein, In which obscurity has wrapp'd them up, The threads of politic and shrewd design, That ran through all his purposes, and charge His mind with meanings that he never had, Or, having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and
The solid earth, and from the strata there Extract a register, by which we learn, That he who made it and reveal'd its dato To Moses, was mistaken in its age.
Some, more acute, and more industrious still, Contrive creation; travel nature up
To the sharp peak of her sublimist height, And tell us whence the stars: why some are fix'd,
And planetary some; what gave them first Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. Great contest follows, and much learned dust, Involves the combatants; each claiming truth, And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend
The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp In playing tricks with nature, giving laws To distant worlds, and trifling in their own. Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums Should ever tease the lungs, and blear the sight Of oracles like these? Great pity, too, That having wielded th' elements, and built A thousand systems, each in his own way, They should go out in fume, and be forgot. Ah! what is life thus spent? and what are they But frantic, who thus spend it? all for smoke- Eternity for bubbles, proves at last
A senseless bargain. When I see such games Play'd by the creatures of a pow'r who swears That he will judge the Earth, and call the fool To a sharp reck'ning, that has liv'd in vain; And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well. And prove it in th' infallible result So hollow and so false-I feel my heart Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd, If this be learning, most of all deceiv'd.
Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. Defend me, therefo, e, common sense, say I, From reveries so airy, from the toil
Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up! 'Twere well, says one, sage, erudite, pro found,
Terribly arch'd and aquiline his nose,
And overbuilt with most impending brows, 'Twere well, could you permit the World to
As the World pleases: what's the World to
Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk As sweet as charity from human breasts.
I think, articulate-I laugh and weep,
And exercise all functions of a man.
How then should I and any man that lives Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein, Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there, And catechise it well: apply thy glass, Search it, and prove now if it be not blood Congenial with thine own: and, if it be, What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art, To cut the link of brotherhood, by which One common Maker bound me to the kind? True; I am no proficient, I confess, In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds, And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath;
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