Which her phyfician, Reafon, will not cure.
A poor expedient! yet thy beft; and while
It mitigates thy pain, it owns it too.

Such are LORENZO's wretched remedies!
The weak have remedies; the wife have joys.
Superior wisdom is fuperior blifs.

And what fure mark diftinguishes the wife?
Confiftent wisdom ever wills the fame;
Thy fickle wifh is ever on the wing.
Sick of herself, is folly's character;
As wifdom's is, a modeft self-applaufe.
A change of evils is thy good fupreme;
Nor, but in motion, canft thou find thy reft.
Man's greatest strength is shewn in standing still.
The firft fure fymptom of a mind in health,
Is reft of heart, and pleasure felt at home.
Falfe pleasure from abroad her joys imports ;
Rich from within, and self fuftain'd, the true
The true is fixt, and folid as a rock;

Slipp'ry the false, and toffing, as the wave.
This, a wild wanderer on earth, like CAIN;
That, like the fabled, felf-enamour'd boy,
Home contemplation her fupreme delight;
She dreads an interruption from without,
Smit with her own condition; and the more
Intense fhe gazes, ftill it charms the more.

No man is happy, till he thinks, on earth
There breathes, not a more happy than himself:
Then envy dies, and love o'erflows on All;
And love o'erflowing makes an angel Here.

Such

Such angels, All, intitled to repose

On Him who governs fate: Tho' tempeft frowns,
Tho' nature shakes, how foft to lean on heaven!
To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!
With inward eyes, and filent as the grave,
They stand collecting ev'ry beam of thought,
Till their hearts kindle with divine delight;
For all their thoughts, like angels, feen of old
In ISRAEL's dream, come from, and go to, heaven :
Hence, are they studious of fequeftred scenes;
While noife, and dissipation, comfort thee.
Were all men happy, revellings would ceafe,
That opiate for inquietude within.
LORENZO! never man was truly bleft,
But it compos'd, and gave him fuch a caft,
As folly might mistake for want of joy.
A caft, unlike the triumph of the proud;
A modeft afpect, and a fmile at heart.
O for a joy from thy PHILANDER's fpring!
A fpring perennial, rifing in the breast,
And permanent, as pure! no turbid ftream
Of rapt'rous exultation, fwelling high;
Which, like land floods, impetuous pour a while,
Then fink at once, and leave us in the mire.
What does the man, who tranfient joy prefers ?
What, but prefer the bubbles to the stream?

Vain are all fudden fallies of delight;
Convulfions of a weak diftemper'd joy.
Joy's a fixt ftate; a tenure, not a start.
Blifs there is none, but unprecarious blifs :

That

That is the gem: Sell All, and purchase That.
Why go a begging to contingencies,

Not gain'd with ease, nor fafely lov'd, if gain'd?

At good fortuitous, draw back, and pause;
Sufpect it; what thou canft enfure, enjoy;
And nought but what thou giv'ft thyfelf, is fure.
Reafon perpetuates joy that reafon gives,
And makes it as immortal as herself:

To mortals, nought immortal, but their worth.
Worth, confcious worth! fhould abfolutely reign;
And other joys afk leave for their approach;
Nor, unexamin'd, ever leave obtain.
Thou art all anarchy; a mob of joys
Wage war, and perish in inteftine broils;

Not the leaft promise of internal peace!
No bofom-comfort! or unborrow'd blifs!

Thy thoughts are vagabonds; All outward bound,
'Mid fands, and rocks, and storms, to cruise for pleasure;
If gain'd, dear-bought; and better mifs'd than gain'd.
Much pain must expiate, what much pain procur'd.
Fancy, and fenfe, from an infected shore,

Thy cargo bring; and peftilence the prize.
Then, fuch thy thirst (insatiable thirst!
By fond indulgence but inflam'd the more!)
Fancy ftill cruifes, when poor fense is tir'd.
Imagination is the Papbian fhop,
Where feeble happiness, like VULCAN, lame,
Bids foul ideas, in their dark recefs,

And hot as hell (which kindled the black fires),
With wanton art, thofe fatal arrows form,

Which murder all thy time, health, wealth, and fame.
Wouldst thou receive them, other thoughts there are,
On angel-wing, defcending from above,

Which thefe, with art divine, would counter-work,
And form celeftial armour for thy peace.

In this is feen imagination's guilt ;

But who can count her follies? She betrays thee,
To think in grandeur there is fomething great.
For works of curious art, and antient fame,
Thy genius hungers, elegantly pain'd;
And foreign climes must cater for thy taste.
Hence, what difafter !-Tho' the price was paid,
That perfecuting priest, the Turk of Rome,
Whose foot (ye gods!) tho' cloven, must be kifs'd,
Detain'd thy dinner on the Latian shore ;
(Such is the fate of honeft Proteftants!)
And poor magnificence is ftarv'd to death.
Hence juft refentment, indignation, ire
Be pacify'd, if outward things are great,
'Tis magnanimity great things to fcorn;
Pompous expences, and parades auguft,
And courts, that infalubrious foil to peace.
True happiness ne'er enter'd at an eye;
True happiness refides in things unfeen.
No fmiles of fortune ever bleft the bad,
Nor can her frowns rob innocence of joys;
That jewel wanting, triple crowns are poor:
So tell his Holiness, and be reveng'd.

Pleasure, we both agree, is man's chief good; Our only conteft, what deserves the name.

Give pleasure's name to nought, but what has pafs'd
Th' authentic feal of reafon (which, like YORKE,
Demurrs on what it paffes), and defies

The tooth of time; when paft, a pleasure ftill;
Dearer on trial, lovelier for its age,

And doubly to be priz'd, as it promotes

Our future, while it forms our prefent, joy.
Some joys the future overcaft; and fome
Throw all their beams that way, and gild the tomb.
Some joys endear eternity; fome give
Abhorr'd annihilation dreadful charms.
Are rival joys contending for thy choice?
Confult thy whole existence, and be safe ;
That oracle will put all doubt to flight.
Short is the leffon, tho' my lecture long,
Be good and let heav'n anfwer for the reft.
Yet, with a figh o'er all mankind, I grant
In this our day of proof, our land of hope,
The good man has his clouds that intervene ;
Clouds, that obfcure his fublunary day,
But never conquer: Ev'n the best must own,
Patience, and refignation, are the pillars

Of human peace on earth. The pillars, Thefe:
But thofe of SETH not more remote from Thee,
Till this heroic leffon thou haft learnt ;

To frown at pleasure, and to fmile in pain.
Fir'd at the profpect of unclouded blifs,
Heav'n in reverfion, like the fun, as yet
Beneath th' horizon, chears us in this world;

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