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Ecstasy sets her stamp on every mein ;
Chins fallen, and not an eye-ball to be seen.
Still I insist, though music heretofore

Has charm'd me much, (not e'en Occiduus more)
Love, joy, and peace, make harmony more meet
For Sabbath evenings, and, perhaps, as sweet.

Will not the sickliest sheep of every flock
Resort to this example as a rock;
There stand, and justify the foul abuse
Of Sabbath hours with plausible excuse?
If apostolic gravity be free

To play the fool on Sundays, why not we?
If he the tinkling harpsichord regards
As inoffensive, what offence in cards?
Strike up the fiddles, let us all be gay!
Laymen have leave to dance, if parsons play.

Oh Italy! thy Sabbaths will be soon

Our Sabbaths, clos'd with mummery and buffoon.
Preaching and pranks will share the motley scene:
Ours parcell'd out, as thine have ever been,
Gods worship and the mountebank between.
What says the prophet? Let that day be blest
With holiness and consecrated rest.

;

Pastime and business both it should exclude,
And bar the door the moment they intrude
Nobly distinguish'd above all the six,
By deeds in which the world must never mix.
Hear him again. He calls it a delight,
A day of luxury, observ'd' aright,

When the glad soul is made heaven's welcome guest,
Sits banqueting, and God provides the feast.
But triflers are engag'd and cannot come ;
Their answer to the call, is-Not at home.

Oh, the dear pleasures of the velvet plain,
The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again.
Cards with what rapture, and the polish'd die,
The yawning chasm of indolence supply!
Then to the dance, and make the sober moon
Witness of joys that shun the sight of noon.
Blame, cynic, if you can, quadrille or ball,
The snug close party, or the splendid hall,
Where night down-stooping from her ebon throne,
Views constellations brighter than her own.
'Tis innocent, and harmless, and refin'd;
The balm of care, elysium of the mind.
Innocent! Oh, if venerable time,

Slain at the foot of pleasure, be no crime,
Then, with his silver beard and magic wand,
Let Comus rise archbishop of the land;
Let him your rubric and your feast prescribe,
Grand metropolitan of all the tribe,

Of manners rough, and coarse athletic cast,
The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste,
Rufillus, exquisitely form'd by rule,
Not of the moral, but the dancing school,
Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone
As tragical, as others at his own.

He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score,
Then kill a constable, and drink five more;
But he can draw a pattern, make a tart,
And has the ladies' etiquette by heart.
Go, fool; and, arm in arm with Clodio, plead
Your cause before a bar you little dread!
But know, the law, that bids the drunkard die,
Is far too just to pass the trifler by.

Both baby-featur'd, and of infant size,
View'd from a distance, and with heedless eyes,
Folly and innocence are so alike,

The difference though essential, fails to strike,
Yet folly ever has a vacant stare,

A simpering countenance, and a trifling air;
But innocence, sedate, serene, erect,
Delights us, by engaging our respect.
Man, nature's guest by invitation sweet,
Receives from her both appetite and treat;
But, if he play the glutton and exceed,
His benefactress blushes at the deed.
For nature, nice, as liberal to dispense,
Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense.
Daniel ate pulse by choice-example rare!

Heaven bless'd the youth, and made him fresh and fair,
Gorgonius sits, abdominous and wan,

Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan ;
He snuffs, far off, th' anticipated joy;
Turtle and venison all his thoughts employ;
Prepares for meals as jockies take a sweat,
Oh, nauseous!—an emetic for a whet!

Will Providence o'erlook the wasted good?
Temperance were no virtue if he could.

That pleasures, therefore, or what such we call,
Are hurtful, is a truth confess'd by all.
And some, that seem to threaten virtue less,
Still hurtful, in th' abuse, or by th' excess.

Is man, then, only for his torment plac'd
The centre of delights he may not taste?
Like fabled Tantalus, condemn'd to hear
The precious stream still purling in his ear,
Lip-deep in what he longs for, and yet curst
With prohibition, and perpetual thirst?
No, wrangler-destitute of shame and sense,
The precept, that enjoins him abstinence,
Forbids him none but the licentious joy,
Whose fruit, though fair, tempts only to destroy.
Remorse, the fatal egg, by pleasure laid

In every bosom where her nest is made,

Hatch'd by the beams of truth, denies him rest,
And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.
No pleasure? Are domestic comforts dead?
Are all the nameless sweets of friendship fled?
Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame,
Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good
All these belong to virtue, and all prove
That virtue has a title to your love.
Have you no touch of pity, that the poor
| Stand starv'd at your inhospitable door?

[fame?

Or, if yourself, too scantily supplied,
Need help, let honest industry provide.
Earn, if you want; if you abound, impart :
These both are pleasures to the feeling heart.
No pleasure? Has some sickly eastern waste
Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast?
Can British paradise no scenes afford
To please her sated and indifferent lord?
Are sweet philosophy's enjoyments run
Quite to the lees? And has religion none?
Brutes, capable, would tell you 'tis a lie,
And judge you from the kennel and the sty.
Delights like these, ye sensual and profane,
Ye are bid, begg'd, besought to entertain;
Call'd to these crystal streams, do ye turn off,
Obscene, to swill and swallow at a trough?
Envy the beast then on whom Heaven bestows
Your pleasures, with no curses in the close.

Pleasure, admitted in undue degree,
Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
'Tis not alone the grape's enticing juice
Unnerves the moral powers, and mars their use:
Ambition, avarice, and the lust of fame,

And woman, lovely woman, does the same.
The heart, surrender'd to the ruling power
Of some ungovern'd passion every hour,

Finds, by degrees, the truths that once bore sway,
And all their deep impressions, wear away.

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