Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame. No. Let her pass, and chariotted along In guilty fplendor, shake the public ways;
The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white. And verfe of mine fhall never brand the wretch, Whom matrons now of character unfmirch'd, And chafte themselves, are not asham'd to own. Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time, Not to be pafs'd. And fhe that had renounc'd Her fex's honour, was renounc'd herself By all that priz'd it; not for prud'ry's fake, But dignity's, refentful of the wrong.
'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif, Defirous to return, and not receiv'd,
But was an wholefome rigour in the main,
And taught the unblemish'd to preserve with care That purity, whofe lofs was lofs of all.
Men too were nice in honour in those days, And judg'd offenders well. And he that sharp'd, And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain❜d,
Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious.
His country, or was flack when she requir'd His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch, Paid with the blood that The price of his default. We are become fo candid
he had bafely fpar'd
But now, yes, now, and so fair,
So lib'ral in construction, and fo rich
In chriftian charity, a good-natur'd age! That they are fafe, finners of either sex,
Transgress what laws they may. Well drefs'd, well bred,
Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough To pafs us readily through ev'ry door. Hypocrify, deteft her as we may,
(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet) May claim this merit ftill, that she admits The worth of what fhe mimics with fuch care, And thus gives virtue indirect applause;
But fhe has burnt her mafk, not needed here, Where vice has fuch allowance, that her fhifts And fpecious femblances have loft their use.
I was a stricken deer that left the herd Long fince; with many an arrow deep infixt, My panting fide was charg'd, when I withdrew To feek a tranquil death in diftant shades. There was I found by one who had himself Been hurt by th' archers. In his fide he bore, And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars. With gentle force foliciting the darts,
He drew them forth, and heal'd and bade me live.
Since then, with few affociates, in remote And filent woods I wander, far from thofe My former partners of the peopled scene; With few affociates, 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 fee that all are wand'rers, gone aftray Each in his own delufions; they are loft In chace of fancy'd happiness, still woo'd And never won. Dream after dream ensues, And ftill they dream that they shall still fucceed, And still are disappointed; rings the world With the vain ftir. I fum 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 gay As if created only like the fly,
That fpreads his motley wings in th' eye of
To fport their feason, and be seen no more. The reft are fober dreamers, grave and wife, 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, character, and views, As they had known him from his mother's womb. They difentangle from the puzzled skein, In which obfcurity has wrapp'd them up, The threads of politic and fhrewd defign,
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 folid 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 fublimeft height, And tell us whence the ftars; why fome are fix'd,
And planetary some; what gave them first Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light. Great conteft 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 fhallow 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 teaze the lungs and blear the fight 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 laft
A fenfelefs bargain. When I fee fuch games Play'd by the creatures of a Pow'r who fwears 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 feeming wisdom well, And prove it in th' infallible refult
So hollow and fo falfe-I feel my heart Diffolve in pity, and account the learn'd, If this be learning, most of all deceiv'd. Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it fleeps While thoughtful man is plausibly amus❜d. Defend me therefore, common sense, say I, From reveries fo airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up? 'Twere well, fays one fage erudite, profound, Terribly arch'd and aquiline his nose,
And overbuilt with moft impending brows; "Twere well, could you permit the world to live As the world pleases. What's the world to you? Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk, As fweet 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 ftrangers to each other? Pierce my vein, Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there,
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