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is oft-times proof of wisdom, when the fault is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach.
Domestic happiness, thou only bliss Of Paradise that has surviv'd the fall! Though few now taste thee unimpair'd and pure, Or, tasting, long enjoy thee; too infirm, Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets Unmix'd with drops of bitter, which neglect Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup. Thou art the nurse of virtue-in thine arms She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is, Hear'n-born, and destin'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, still leaning on the arm Of novelty, her fickle frail support; For thou art meek and constant, 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 aside In all our crowded streets; and fenates seem Conven'd for purpofes of empire less Than to release th' adultrefs from her bond.
Th’ adultress! what a theme for angry verse!
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch, Paid, with the blood that he had bafely spar'd, The price of his default. But nowmyes, now We are become so candid and so fair, So lib'ral in construction, and fo rich In Christian charity, (a good-natur'd age !) That they are safe, finners of either sex, Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd, wellbred, Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough To pass us readily through ey'ry door. Hypocrisy, deteft her as we may, (And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet) May claim this merit still that the 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 specions semblances have lost their use.
I was a stricken deer, that left the herd
With gentle force foliciting the darts,
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 rest are fober dreamers, grave and wise, 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 history: defcribe the man, of whom His own coevals took but little note; And paint his person, chara&ter, and views, As they had known him from his mother's womb. They disentangle from the puzzled Akein, 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 bore The solid 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 still, Contrive creation; travel nature up To the sharp peak of her subliment height, And tell us whence the stars ; why some are fix’d, And planetary fome; what gave them first Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. Great contest 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 shallow lampa In playing tricks with nature, giving laws To distaot worlds, and triding in their own.