Why does the fober-deem'd fwear o'er his Cann; 'Tis ill to contradict the Gentleman:

He Heav'n expects, who fwears but now and then,

At laft fo often, that he knows not when.
So dafh'd at firft is a young Hypocrite,
Now openly, and without Shame can bite.

Why doth the lofing Gamefter curfe in vain?
A thoufand Curfes can't his Lofs regain.

Could Oaths be Cash, and Fortune long should smile,
His Soul's dear Price he might enjoy a while;
At laft fhe frowns, Death feizeth in a Trice,
The dying Gamefter damns the fickle Dice.

Why doth the Mafter hear his Servants fwear,
And not admonish, and bid them forbear?
If he is fav'd, no Matter who is damn'd;
No Matter who is ftarv'd, if he be cramm'd.

Why doth the Poor infernal Language vent Against the Great, the Good, Omnipotent ? Why doth he follow JoB's impatient Wife, And hate the Cross that leads to future Life ?

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What makes the Soldier dutiful? An Oath? What makes the Sailor fly? A Look, or both?" Quite the reverfe; for CROMWELL'S Men, I hear, Would pray, and fight against their King, not swear.

Is Learning loft, and Revelation vain ?

Is Reason buried? and from thence, what Gain?
The Rake finds Pleafure in an Harlot's Arms;

And the full Bumper, the full Toper charms.

:

Revenge a Sweetnefs, Hate ill Usage plead;
And Envy, her Inferior's better Bread:

The Jealous with vain Fears his Mind supplies,
And for his Honour, (ah! poor Honour!) dies:
While the Ambitious to be HE, drives on,
Knocks Honour down, bids Honefty be gone.
Thefe drive the Devil's Stages for fome Hire,

. While the poor Swearer to eternal Fire

Headlong, for Nothing, Soul and Body fends;

And who with Saints might live, will die with Fiends. Think foberly on the uncertain Hour,

Death, Judgment, Heav'n and Hell, think on thefe Four.

Think on the Grave, where all forgotten lie;
Think how your Sin-polluted Souls will fly

From God's pure Prefence to eternal Night;
Think, and reflect what 'tis to lose his Sight.

Shall Provocation urge an Oath? 'tis hard!
Strive to fubdue, and think on your Reward.
No Provocation, be it e'er fo grofs,

Can equal GOD's Displeasure, and thy Lofs.
'Twas Pain and Grief, King DAVID once complain'd,
Who with a Bridle, as it were, refrain'd

His Lips, his Mouth, from speaking even Good,
While the Ungodly in his Prefence stood.

Our Saviour to us an Example fhews,

And, tho' petition'd, would not hurt the Jews:
Tho' by the Jews, with Words, and Blows abus'd,
He neither Curfes nor ill Language us'd.

Without an Oath, he will enable you

To bear the little Ills this World can do.

View thyself, Man! examine well, and fee

What mighty Wonders center all in Thee.

The curious Eyes are fenc'd beneath the Brow,
With Joy now fparkling, now with Tears they flow:

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Quick they receive the Light, the Ears the Sound,
Which foon are in the Understanding found.

How various is the Tafte, the Smell as much!

Of Pain, and Pleafure fenfible the Touch.
For Refpiration fitted are the Lungs,

And to proclaim our Maker's Praise, our Tongues,
Within the Breast how curiously is plac'd

The Heart erect! with divine Prefence grac'd,

If Good; if Bad, then Satan over-rules:
And at his Pleafure leads his captive Fools.

How wonderfully art thou made, O Man!
The Lord of all below, Thou little Span!
The Lord of all below! Lord, did I say?
Worfe than the Beafts, that Thee Obedience pay.
To damn thy Heart, thy Senfes, and thy Soul:
O most ungracious Lips! O Mouths moft foul!
The Mouth fo foul, how foul must be the Heart!
The Wound fo deep, how great must be the Smart!

Why will ye call on GoD your Souls to damn,
By Him created, ranfom'd by the Lamb
The Soul's a Being (Substance what, or how,
With Forms converfing, not as yet we know)

Immortal, Immaterial, and of Pain,

Or Pleasure capable, and thefe are plain:
Can Matter think, or Will, or Judgment frame,
Acts of the Soul alone, that move the fame?

Thefe Acts, as they in Good or Ill abound,

Convey to Her her Peace, or deadly Wound.

Learn hence to dread that Name that form'd you firft, Ever with Him to live, or ever curft.

What Thirst will feize your Lips, what Pains your Loins, When He his Anger with his Thunder joins?

The Tongue that fo profanely us'd his Name,

Shall fuffer in a never-ceafing Flame.

Th' intolerable Infults of the Fiends

Whose Cause you now efpoufe, and stand their Friends!

Forgive me, LORD! while others I condemn, Perhaps more finful, when compar'd to them. Forgive the Sins I know, unknown to me, Forgot, or Sins of whatfoe'er Degree.

We, in thy Law our Condemnation read,

Before thy Throne of Grace, we guilty plead.

The facred Influence of thy Mercy fhed,

And fave our Souls for whom thy Wounds have bled.

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