Wit, how delicious to man's dainty taste!
'Tis precious, as the vehicle of Sense;
But, as its substitute, a dire disease.
Pernicious talent! Flatter'd by the world,

By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare.
Wisdom is rare, LORENZO! Wit abounds;
Passion can give it; sometimes wine inspires
The lucky flash; and madness rarely fails.
Whatever cause the spirit strongly stirs,
Confers the bays, and rivals thy renown.
For thy renown, 'twere well, was this the worst;
Chance often hits it, and, to pique thee more,
See dullness blúnd'ring on vivacities,
Shakes her sage head at the calamity,
Which has expos'd, and let her down to thee.
But wisdom, awful wisdom! which inspects,
Discerns, compares, weighs, separates, infers,
Seizes the right, and holds it to the last;
How rare! In senates, synods, sought in vain ;
Or, if there found, 'tis sacred to the few;
While a lewd prostitute to multitudes,
Frequent, as fatal, wit: In civil life,

Wit, makes an enterpriser; sense, a man.
Wit, hates authority; commotion doves,
And thinks herself the lightning of the storm.
In States, 'tis dang'rous; in religion, death:
Shall wit turn christian, when the dull believe?
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume;
The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves.
Sense is the di'mond, weighty, solid, sound;
When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam;
Yet, wit apart, it is a di'mond still.

Wit, widow'd of good sense, is worse than nought;

It hoists more sails to run against a rock.
Thus, a half-CHESTERFIELD is quite a fool :
Whom dull fools scorn, and bless their want of wit.
How ruinous the rock I warn thee shun,
Where Sirens sit, to sing thee to thy fate!
A joy, in which our reason bears no part,
Is but a sorrow tickling, ere it stings.

Let not the cooings of the world allnre thee;
Which of her lovers ever found her true?
Happy! of this bad world who little know!
And yet, we much must know her to be safe.
To know the world, not love her, is thy point;
She gives but little, nor that little, long.
There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse;
A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy,
Our thoughtless agitation's idle child,
That mantles high, that sparkles, and expires,
Leaving the soul more vapid than before.
An animal ovation! such as holds

No commerce with our reason, but subsists
On juices, thro' the well ton'd tubes, well strain'd
A nice machine! scarce ever tun'd aright;
And when it jars-thy sirens sing no more;
Thy dance is done; the demi-god, is thrown
(Short apotheosis !) beneath the man,
In coward gloom immers'd, or fell despair.
Art thou yet dull enough despair to dread,
And startle at destruction? If thou art,
Accept a buckler, take it to the field;
(A field of battle is this mortal life!)
When danger threatens, lay it on thy heart;
A single sentence proof against the world.
"Soul, body, fortune! Ev'ry good pertains

To one of these; but prize not all alike;
The goods of fortune to thy body's health,
Body to soul, and soul submit to God."
Wouldst thou build lasting happiness? Do this;
Th' inverted pyramid can never stand.

Is this truth doubtful? It outshines the sun;
Nay, the Sun shines not, but to shew us this,
The single lesson of mankind on earth.

And yet-Yet, what? No news! Mankind is mad;
Such mighty numbers list against the right,
(And what can't numbers when bewitch'd, atchieve!)
They talk themselves to something like belief,
That all earth's joys are theirs: As Athens' fool
Grinn'd from the port, on ev'ry sail his own.

They grin; but wherefore? And how long the laugh?

Half ignorance, their mirth; and half, a lie;

To cheat the world, and cheat themselves, they smile.

Hard either task! The most abandon'd own,

That others, if abandon'd, are undone :

Then, for themselves, the moment reason wakes,
(And Providence denies it long repose)
O how laborious is their gaiety!

They scarce can swallow their ebullient spleen,
Scarce muster patience to support the farce,
And pump sad laughter, 'till the curtain falls.
Scarce, did I say? Some cannot sit it out;
Oft their own daring hands, the curtain draw,
And shew us what their joy, by their despair.
The clotted hair! gor'd breast! blaspheming eye!
Its impious fury still alive in death!—

Shut, shut the shocking scene.-But heav'n denies

A cover to such guilt; and so should man.
Look round, LORENZO ! see the reeking blade,
'Th' invenom'd phial, and the fatal ball;
The strangling cord, and suffocating stream;
The loathsome rottenness, and foul decays
From raging riot, (slower suicides!)

And pride in these, more execrable still!—
How horrid all to thought!-But horrors, these,
That vouch the truth; and aid my feeble song.
From vice, sense, fancy, no man can be blest;
Bliss is too great, to lodge within an hour:
When an immortal being aims at bliss,
Duration is essential to the name.

O for a joy from reason! Joy from that,

Which makes man, man: and, exercis'd aright,

་

Will make him more: A bounteous joy that gives,

And promises; that weaves, with art divine,

The richest prospect into present peace :

A joy ambitious! Joy in common held
With thrones ethereal, and their greater far:
A joy, high-privileg'd from chance, time, death!
A joy, which death shall double! Judgment crown!
Crown'd higher, and still higher, at each stage,
Through bless'd eternity's long day: yet still,
Not more remote from sorrow, than from Him,
Whose lavish hand, whose love, stupendous, pours
So much of Deity on guilty dust.

There, O my LUCIA! may I meet thee there,
Where not thy presence can improve my bliss!
Affects not this the sages of the world?

Can nought affect them, but what fools them too?
Eternity, depending on an hour,

Makes serious thought man's wisdom, joy, and

praise.

Nor need you blush (though sometimes your designs
May shun the light) at your designs on heav'n:
Sole point! where over-bashful is your blame.

Are you
not wise 2-You know you are: yet hear
One truth, amid your num'rous schemes, mislaid,
Or overlook'd, or thrown aside, if seen;

"Our schemes to plan by this world, or the next,
Is the sole diff'rence between wise, and fool."
All worthy men will weigh you in this scale;
What wonder, then, if they pronounce you light?
Is their esteem alone not worth your care?
Accept my simple scheme of Common Sense:
Thus save your fame, and make two worlds your

own.

The world replies not ;-but the world persists :
And puts the cause off to the longest day,
Planning evasions for the day of doom.
So far, at that re-hearing, from redress,
They then turn witnesses against themselves.
Hear that, LORENZO! Nor be wise to-morrow,
Haste, haste! A man, by nature, is in haste;
For who shall answer for another hour?
'Tis highly prudent, to make one sure friend;
And that thou canst not do, this side the skies.
Ye sons of earth! (nor willing to be more!)
Since verse you think from priestcraft somewhat
free,

Thus, in an age so gay, the muse plain truths
(Truths, which, at church, you might have heard in
prose)

Has ventur❜d into light; well pleas'd the verse