[ The Complaint : or , Night-Thoughts on Life , Death & Immortality . ] Night VIII . Virtue's Apology ; or , The Man of the World Answered . In which are considered , the love of this life ; the ambition and pleasure , with the wit and wisdom , of the world . And has all Nature , then , espoused my part ? Have I bribed Heaven and Earth to plead against thee ? And is thy soul immortal ? — What remains ? All , all , Lorenzo ! — Make immortal bless'd . Unbless'd immortals ! what can shock us more ? And yet Lorenzo still affects the world ; There , stows his treasure ; thence , his title draws , Man of the world ! ( for such wouldst thou be call'd ! ) And art thou proud of that inglorious style ? Proud of reproach ? for a reproach it was , In ancient days ; and Christian — in an age , When men were men , and not ashamed of Heaven — Fired their ambition , as it crown'd their joy . Sprinkled with dews from the Castalian font , Fain would I re-baptize thee , and confer A purer spirit , and a nobler name . Thy fond attachments , fatal and inflamed , Point out my path , and dictate to my song : To thee the World how fair ! how strongly strikes Ambition ! and gay Pleasure stronger still ! Thy triple bane ! the triple bolt , that lays Thy Virtue dead ! Be these my triple theme ; Nor shall thy wit or wisdom be forgot . Common the theme ; not so the song ; if she My song invokes , Urania , deigns to smile . The charm that chains us to the World , her foe , If she dissolves , the man of earth , at once , Starts from his trance , and sighs for other scenes ; Scenes , where these sparks of night , these stars , shall shine Unnumber'd suns ; ( for all things as they are The bless'd behold ; ) and , in one glory , pour Their blended blaze on man's astonish'd sight ; A blaze , — the least illustrious object there . Lorenzo ! since Eternal is at hand , To swallow Time's ambitions ; as the vast Leviathan , the bubbles vain that ride High on the foaming billow ; what avail High titles , high descent , attainments high , If unattain'd our highest ? O Lorenzo ! What lofty thoughts , these elements above , What towering hopes , what sallies from the sun , What grand surveys of destiny Divine , And pompous presage of unfathom'd fate , Should roll in bosoms where a spirit burns , Bound for eternity ; in bosoms read By Him who foibles in archangels sees ! On human hearts He bends a jealous eye , And marks , and in Heaven's register enrols , The rise and progress of each option there ; Sacred to doomsday ! That the page unfolds , And spreads us to the gaze of gods and men . And what an option , O Lorenzo , thine ! This world ! and this , unrivall'd by the skies ! A world , where Lust of Pleasure , Grandeur , Gold , Three demons that divide its realms between them , With strokes alternate buffet to and fro Man's restless heart , their sport , their flying ball ; Till with the giddy circle sick and tired , It pants for peace , and drops into despair . Such is the world Lorenzo sets above That glorious promise angels were esteem'd Too mean to bring : a promise , their Adored Descended to communicate , and press , By counsel , miracle , life , death , on man . Such is the world Lorenzo's wisdom wooes , And on its thorny pillow seeks repose ; A pillow which , like opiates ill-prepared , Intoxicates , but not composes ; fills The visionary mind with gay chimeras , All the wild trash of sleep , without the rest ; What unfeign'd travail , and what dreams of joy ! How frail men , things ! how momentary both ! Fantastic chase , of shadows hunting shades ! The gay , the busy , equal , though unlike ; Equal in wisdom , differently wise ! Through flowery meadows , and through dreary wastes , One bustling , and one dancing , into death . There's not a day but , to the man of thought , Betrays some secret , that throws new reproach On life , and makes him sick of seeing more . The scenes of business tell us — " what are men ; " The scenes of pleasure — " what is all beside : " There , others we despise ; and here , ourselves . Amid disgust eternal , dwells delight ? 'T is approbation strikes the string of joy . What wondrous prize has kindled this career , Stuns with the din , and chokes us with the dust , On Life's gay stage , one inch above the grave ? The proud run up and down in quest of eyes ; The sensual , in pursuit of something worse ; The grave , of gold ; the politic , of power ; And all , of other butterflies , as vain ! As eddies draw things frivolous and light , How is man's heart by vanity drawn in ; On the swift circle of returning toys , Whirl'd , straw-like , round and round , and then ingulf'd , Where gay delusion darkens to despair ! " This is a beaten track . " — Is this a track Should not be beaten ? Never beat enough , Till enough learn'd the truths it would inspire . Shall Truth be silent because Folly frowns ? Turn the world's history ; what find we there , But Fortune's sports , or Nature's cruel claims , Or woman's artifice , or man's revenge , And endless inhumanities on man ? Fame's trumpet seldom sounds but , like the knell , It brings bad tidings ! How it hourly blows Man's misadventures round the listening world ! Man is the tale of narrative Old Time ; Sad tale ! which high as Paradise begins . As if the toil of travel to delude , From stage to stage , in his eternal round , The Days , his daughters , — as they spin our hours On Fortune's wheel , where accident unthought Oft , in a moment , snaps life's strongest thread , — Each , in her turn , some tragic story tells , With , now-and-then , a wretched farce between ; And fills his chronicle with human woes . Time's daughters , true as those of men , deceive us ; Not one but puts some cheat on all mankind : While in their father's bosom , not yet ours , They flatter our fond hopes ; and promise much Of amiable , but hold him not o'er-wise Who dares to trust them ; and laugh round the year At still confiding , still confounded man , Confiding , though confounded ; hoping on , Untaught by trial , unconvinced by proof , And ever looking for the never-seen . Life to the last , like harden'd felons , lies ; Nor owns itself a cheat , till it expires . Its little joys go out by one and one , And leave poor man , at length , in perfect night ; Night darker than what now involves the pole . O THOU , who dost permit these ills to fall For gracious ends , and wouldst that man should mourn ! O THOU , whose hand this goodly fabric framed , Who know'st it best , and wouldst that man should know ! What is this sublunary world ? A vapour ! A vapour all it holds ; itself a vapour ; From the damp bed of Chaos , by Thy beam Exhaled , ordain'd to swim its destined hour In ambient air , then melt , and disappear ! Earth's days are number'd , nor remote her doom ; As mortal , though less transient than her sons : Yet they dote on her , as the world and they Were both eternal , solid ; THOU , a dream . They dote ! on what ? Immortal views apart , A region of outsides , a land of shadows ! A fruitful field of flowery promises ! A wilderness for joys , perplex'd with doubts , And sharp with thorns ! a troubled ocean , spread With bold adventurers , their all on board ; No second hope if here their fortune frowns : Frown soon it must . Of various rates they sail , Of ensigns various ; all alike in this , — All restless , anxious ; toss'd with hopes and fears In calmest skies : obnoxious all to storm ; And stormy the most general blast of life : All bound for happiness ; yet few provide The chart of Knowledge , pointing where it lies ; Or Virtue's helm , to shape the course design'd . All , more or less , capricious Fate lament , Now lifted by the tide , and now resorb'd , And farther from their wishes than before : All , more or less , against each other dash , To mutual hurt by gusts of passion driven , And suffering more from Folly than from Fate . Ocean , thou dreadful and tumultuous home Of dangers , at eternal war with man ! Death's capital , where most he domineers , With all his chosen terrors frowning round , ( Though lately feasted high at Albion's cost , ) Admiral Balchen , etc. Wide opening and loud roaring still for more ! Too faithful mirror ! how dost thou reflect The melancholy face of human life ! The strong resemblance tempts me farther still ; And haply Britain may be deeper struck By moral truth , in such a mirror seen , Which Nature holds for ever at her eye . Self-flatter'd , unexperienced , high in hope , When young , with sanguine cheer , and streamers gay , We cut our cable , launch into the world , And fondly dream each wind and star our friend ; All , in some darling enterprise embark'd : But where is he can fathom its event ? Amid a multitude of artless hands , Ruin's sure perquisite , her lawful prize ! Some steer aright ; but the black blast blows hard , And puffs them wide of hope : with hearts of proof , Full against wind and tide , some win their way ; And when strong Effort has deserved the port , And tugg'd it into view , 't is won ! 't is lost ! Though strong their oar , still stronger is their fate : They strike ; and while they triumph , they expire . In stress of weather , most ; some sink outright ; O'er them , and o'er their names , the billows close ; To-morrow knows not they were ever born . Others a short memorial leave behind , Like a flag floating , when the bark's ingulf'd ; It floats a moment , and is seen no more : One Caesar lives ; a thousand are forgot . How few , beneath auspicious planets born , ( Darlings of Providence , fond Fate's elect ! ) With swelling sails make good the promised port , With all their wishes freighted ! Yet e'en these , Freighted with all their wishes , soon complain . Free from misfortune , not from Nature free , They still are men ; and when is man secure ? As fatal Time as Storm ! The rush of years Beats down their strength ; their numberless escapes In ruin end : and now their proud success But plants new terrors on the victor's brow : What pain to quit the world just made their own , Their nest so deeply down'd , and built so high ! Too low they build who build beneath the stars . Woe then apart , ( if woe apart can be From mortal man , ) and Fortune at our nod , The gay , rich , great , triumphant , and august ! What are they ? — The most happy ( strange to say ! ) Convince me most of human misery : What are they ? Smiling wretches of to-morrow ! More wretched then than e'er their slave can be ; Their treacherous blessings , at the day of need , Like other faithless friends , unmask and sting : Then , what provoking indigence in wealth ! What aggravated impotence in power ! High titles , then , what insult of their pain ! If that sole anchor , equal to the waves , Immortal Hope ! defies not the rude storm , Takes comfort from the foaming billow's rage , And makes a welcome harbour of the tomb . Is this a sketch of what thy soul admires ? " But here , " thou say'st , " the miseries of life Are huddled in a group . A more distinct Survey , perhaps , might bring thee better news . " Look on life's stages : they speak plainer still ; The plainer they , the deeper wilt thou sigh . Look on thy lovely boy ; in him behold The best that can befall the best on earth ; The boy has virtue by his mother's side : Yes , on Florello look : — a father's heart Is tender , though the man's is made of stone : The truth , through such a medium seen , may make Impression deep , and Fondness prove thy friend . Florello , lately cast on this rude coast A helpless infant ; now a heedless child ; To poor Clarissa's throes , thy care succeeds : Care full of love , and yet severe as hate ! O'er thy soul's joy how oft thy fondness frowns ! Needful austerities his will restrain ; As thorns fence-in the tender plant from harm . As yet , his reason cannot go alone ; But asks a sterner nurse to lead it on . His little heart is often terrified ; The blush of morning in his cheek turns pale ; Its pearly dew-drop trembles in his eye , His harmless eye ! and drowns an angel there . Ah ! what avails his innocence ? The task Enjoin'd must discipline his early powers ; He learns to sigh ere he has known to sin ; Guiltless , and sad ! a wretch before the fall ! How cruel this ! more cruel to forbear . Our nature such , with necessary pains We purchase prospects of precarious peace : Though not a father , this might steal a sigh . Suppose him disciplined aright ; ( if not , 'T will sink our poor account to poorer still ; ) Ripe from the tutor , proud of liberty , He leaps enclosure , bounds into the world : The world is taken , after ten years' toil , Like ancient Troy ; and all its joys his own Alas ! the world's a tutor more severe ; Its lessons hard , and ill deserve his pains ; Unteaching all his virtuous nature taught , Or books ( fair Virtue's advocates ! ) inspired . For who receives him into public life ? Men of the world , the terrae-filial breed , Welcome the modest stranger to their sphere , ( Which glitter'd long , at distance , in his sight , ) And in their hospitable arms enclose : Men who think nought so strong of the romance , So rank knight-errant , as a real friend : Men that act up to Reason's golden rule , All weakness of affection quite subdued : Men that would blush at being thought sincere , And feign , for glory , the few faults they want ; That love a lie , where Truth would pay as well ; As if , to them , Vice shone her own reward . Lorenzo ! canst thou bear a shocking sight ? Such , for Florello's sake , 't will now appear : — See the steel'd files of season'd veterans , Train'd to the world , in burnish'd falsehood bright ; Deep in the fatal stratagems of peace ; All soft sensation in the throng rubb'd off ; All their keen purpose in politeness sheathed ; His friends eternal — during interest ; His foes implacable — when worth their while ; At war with every welfare but their own ; As wise as Lucifer , and half as good ; And by whom none but Lucifer can gain : — Naked , through these , ( so common Fate ordains , ) Naked of heart , his cruel course he runs , Stung out of all most amiable in life , Prompt truth , and open thought , and smiles unfeign'd ; Affection , as his species , wide diffused ; Noble presumptions to mankind's renown ; Ingenuous trust , and confidence of love . These claims to joy ( if mortals joy might claim ) Will cost him many a sigh , till time , and pains , From the slow mistress of this school , Experience , And her assistant , pausing , pale Distrust , Purchase a dear-bought clue to lead his youth Through serpentine obliquities of life , And the dark labyrinth of human hearts . And happy if the clue shall come so cheap ! For while we learn to fence with public guilt , Full oft we feel its foul contagion too , If less than heavenly Virtue is our guard . Thus , a strange kind of cursed necessity Brings down the sterling temper of his soul , By base alloy , to bear the current stamp , Below call'd Wisdom ; sinks him into safety ; And brands him into credit with the world ; Where specious titles dignify disgrace , And Nature's injuries are arts of life ; Where brighter Reason prompts to bolder crimes , And heavenly talents make infernal hearts , — That unsurmountable extreme of guilt ! Poor Machiavel , who labour'd hard his plan , Forgot that Genius needs not go to school ; Forgot that man , without a tutor wise , His plan had practised long before 'twas writ . The world's all title-page , there's no contents : The world's all face ; the man who shows his heart Is hooted for his nudities , and scorn'd . A man I knew who lived upon a smile ; And well it fed him ; he look'd plump and fair , While rankest venom foam'd through every vein . Lorenzo ! what I tell thee , take not ill . Living , he fawn'd on every fool alive ; And , dying , cursed the friend on whom he lived . To such proficients thou art half a saint . In foreign realms , ( for thou hast travell'd far , ) How curious to contemplate two state-rooks , Studious their nests to feather in a trice , With all the necromantics of their art , Playing the game of faces on each other , Making court-sweetmeats of their latent gall , In foolish hope to steal each other's trust ; Both cheating , both exulting , both deceived ; And , sometimes , both ( let earth rejoice ) undone ! Their parts we doubt not ; but be that their shame . Shall men of talents , fit to rule mankind , Stoop to mean wiles , that would disgrace a fool ? And lose the thanks of those few friends they serve ? For who can thank the man he cannot see ? Why so much cover ? It defeats itself . Ye that know all things ! know ye not men's hearts Are therefore known , because they are conceal'd ? For why conceal'd ? — The cause they need not tell . I give him joy that's awkward at a lie ; Whose feeble nature Truth keeps still in awe : His incapacity is his renown . 'T is great , 't is manly , to disdain disguise ; It shows our spirit , or it proves our strength . Thou say'st 't is needful . Is it therefore right ? Howe'er , I grant it some small sign of grace , To strain at an excuse . And wouldst thou then Escape that cruel need ? Thou mayst with ease : Think no post needful that demands a knave . When late our civil helm was shifting hands , So P — thought : think better , if you can . But this , how rare ! The public path of life Is dirty . Yet allow that dirt its due ; It makes the noble mind more noble still . The world's no neuter ; it will wound or save ; Our virtue quench , or indignation fire . You say , " The world , well-known , will make a man : " The world , well-known , will give our hearts to Heaven , Or make us demons long before we die . To show how fair the world , thy mistress , shines , Take either part , sure ills attend the choice : Sure , though not equal , detriment ensues . Not Virtue's self is deified on earth : Virtue has her relapses , conflicts , foes ; Foes that ne'er fail to make her feel their hate . Virtue has her peculiar set of pains . True , friends to virtue last and least complain : But if they sigh , can others hope to smile ? If Wisdom has her miseries to mourn , How can poor Folly lead a happy life ? And if both suffer , what has Earth to boast , Where he most happy who the least laments ? Where much , much patience , the most envied state ; And some forgiveness needs the best of friends ? For friend or happy life who looks not higher , Of neither shall he find the shadow here . The world's sworn advocate , without a fee , Lorenzo smartly , with a smile , replies : " Thus far thy song is right ; and all must own , Virtue has her peculiar set of pains . — And joys peculiar who to Vice denies , If Vice it is with Nature to comply ? If Pride and Sense are so predominant , To check , not overcome , them makes a saint : Can Nature in a plainer voice proclaim Pleasure and glory the chief good of man ? " Can Pride and Sensuality rejoice ? From purity of thought all pleasure springs ; And from an humble spirit , all our peace . Ambition , pleasure ! let us talk of these : Of these the Porch and Academy talk'd ; Of these , each following age had much to say : Yet unexhausted still the needful theme . Who talks of these , to mankind all at once He talks ; for where the saint from either free ? Are these thy refuge ? — No ; these rush upon thee , Thy vitals seize , and , vulture-like , devour . I'll try if I can pluck thee from thy rock , Prometheus ! from this barren ball of earth : If Reason can unchain thee , thou art free . And first , thy Caucasus , Ambition , calls : Mountain of torments ! eminence of woes ! Of courted woes ! and courted through mistake ! 'T is not Ambition charms thee : 't is a cheat Will make thee start , as H—— at his Moor . Dost grasp at greatness ? First , know what it is : Think'st thou thy greatness in distinction lies ? Not in the feather , wave it e'er so high , By Fortune stuck , to mark us from the throng , Is glory lodged : 't is lodged in the reverse ; In that which joins , in that which equals , all , The monarch and his slave ; — " a deathless soul , Unbounded prospect , and immortal kin , A Father God , and brothers in the skies ; " Elder , indeed , in time ; but less remote In excellence , perhaps , than thought by man . Why greater what can fall , than what can rise ? If still delirious now , Lorenzo ! go ; And with thy full-blown brothers of the world , Throw scorn around thee ; cast it on thy slaves ; Thy slaves , and equals : how scorn cast on them Rebounds on thee ! If man is mean , as man , Art thou a god ? If Fortune makes him so , Beware the consequence : a maxim that , Which draws a monstrous picture of mankind , Where , in the drapery , the man is lost ; Externals fluttering , and the soul forgot : Thy greatest glory when disposed to boast , Boast that aloud in which thy servants share . We wisely strip the steed we mean to buy : Judge we , in their caparisons , of men ? It nought avails thee where , but what , thou art : All the distinctions of this little life Are quite cutaneous , foreign to the man ! When through Death's straits Earth's subtle serpents creep , Which wriggle into wealth , or climb renown , As crooked Satan the forbidden tree , They leave their party-colour'd robe behind , All that now glitters , while they rear aloft Their brasen crests , and hiss at us below . Of Fortune's fucus strip them , yet alive ; Strip them of body , too ; nay , closer still , Away with all , but moral , in their minds ; And let what then remains impose their name , Pronounce them weak , or worthy ! great , or mean ! How mean that snuff of glory Fortune lights , And Death puts out ! Dost thou demand a test ( A test at once infallible and short ) Of real greatness ? That man greatly lives , Whate'er his fate or fame , who greatly dies ; High-flush'd with hope where heroes shall despair . If this a true criterion , many courts , Illustrious , might afford but few grandees . The' Almighty , from His throne , on earth surveys Nought greater than an honest humble heart ; An humble heart , His residence ! pronounced His second seat ; and rival to the skies . The private path , the secret acts of men , If noble , far the noblest of our lives ! How far above Lorenzo's glory sits The' illustrious master of a name unknown ; Whose worth unrivall'd , and unwitness'd , loves Life's sacred shades , where gods converse with men ; And Peace , beyond the world's conceptions , smiles ! As thou ( now dark ) before we part shalt see . But thy great soul this skulking glory scorns . Lorenzo's sick but when Lorenzo's seen ; And , when he shrugs at public business , lies . Denied the public eye , the public voice , As if he lived on others' breath , he dies . Fain would he make the world his pedestal ; Mankind the gazers , the sole figure he . Knows he that mankind praise against their will , And mix as much detraction as they can ? Knows he that faithless Fame her whisper has , As well as trumpet ? that his vanity Is so much tickled from not hearing all ? Knows this all-knower that , from itch of praise , Or from an itch more sordid , when he shines , Taking his country by five hundred ears , Senates at once admire him , and despise , With modest laughter lining loud applause , Which makes the smile more mortal to his fame ? His fame , which , ( like the mighty Caesar , ) crown'd With laurels , in full senate , greatly falls , By seeming friends that honour , and destroy . We rise in glory as we sink in pride ; Where boasting ends , there dignity begins ; And yet , mistaken beyond all mistake , The blind Lorenzo's proud — of being proud ; And dreams himself ascending in his fall . An eminence , though fancied , turns the brain ; All vice wants hellebore ; but of all vice Pride loudest calls , and for the largest bowl ; Because , all other vice unlike , it flies , In fact , the point in fancy most pursued . Who court applause , oblige the world in this : They gratify man's passion to refuse . Superior honour , when assumed , is lost ; E'en good men turn banditti , and rejoice , Like Kouli Khan , in plunder of the proud . Though somewhat disconcerted , steady still To the world's cause , with half a face of joy , Lorenzo cries , — " Be , then , Ambition cast ; Ambition's dearer far stands unimpeach'd , Gay Pleasure ! Proud Ambition is her slave ; For her he soars at great , and hazards ill ; For her he fights , and bleeds or overcomes ; And paves his way with crowns to reach her smile : Who can resist her charms ? " — Or , should ? Lorenzo ! What mortal shall resist , where angels yield ? Pleasure's the mistress of ethereal powers ; For her contend the rival gods above ; Pleasure's the mistress of the world below . And well it is for man that Pleasure charms : How would all stagnate , but for Pleasure's ray ! How would the frozen stream of action cease ! What is the pulse of this so busy world ? The love of Pleasure : that , through every vein , Throws motion , warmth ; and shuts out death from life . Though various are the tempers of mankind , Pleasure's gay family hold all in chains : Some most affect the black , and some the fair : Some honest pleasure court , and some obscene . Pleasures obscene are various , as the throng Of passions that can err in human hearts ; Mistake their objects , or transgress their bounds . Think you there's but one whoredom ? Whoredom all , But when our Reason licenses delight . Dost doubt , Lorenzo ? Thou shalt doubt no more . Thy father chides thy gallantries ; yet hugs An ugly common harlot in the dark ; A rank adulterer with others' gold : And that hag , Vengeance , in a corner , charms . Hatred her brothel has , as well as Love , Where horrid epicures debauch in blood . Whate'er the motive , Pleasure is the mark ! For her the black assassin draws his sword ; For her dark statesmen trim their midnight lamp , To which no single sacrifice may fall ; For her the saint abstains , the miser starves ; The Stoic proud , for pleasure , pleasure scorn'd ; For her Affliction's daughters grief indulge , And find , or hope , a luxury in tears ; For her , guilt , shame , toil , danger we defy ; And , with an aim voluptuous , rush on death . Thus universal her despotic power . And as her empire wide , her praise is just . Patron of pleasure , doter on delight ! I am thy rival ; pleasure I profess ; Pleasure the purpose of my gloomy song . Pleasure is nought but Virtue's gayer name : I wrong her still , I rate her worth too low : Virtue the root , and Pleasure is the flower ; And honest Epicurus' foes were fools . But this sounds harsh , and gives the wise offence ; If o'erstrain'd wisdom still retains the name . How knits Austerity her cloudy brow , And blames , as bold and hazardous , the praise Of Pleasure to mankind , unpraised too dear ! Ye modern Stoics ! hear my soft reply : — Their senses men will trust ; we can't impose ; Or if we could , is imposition right ? Own honey sweet , but , owning , add this sting , — " When mix'd with poison , it is deadly too . " Truth never was indebted to a lie . Is nought but Virtue to be praised as good ? Why then is health preferr'd before disease ? What Nature loves is good , without our leave . And where no future drawback cries , " Beware ! " Pleasure , though not from Virtue , should prevail . 'T is balm to life , and gratitude to Heaven : How cold our thanks for bounties unenjoy'd ! The Love of Pleasure is man's eldest-born , Born in his cradle , living to his tomb . Wisdom , her younger sister , though more grave , Was meant to minister , and not to mar Imperial Pleasure , queen of human hearts . Lorenzo , thou , Her Majesty's renown'd ( Though uncoif'd ) counsel , learned in the world , Who think'st thyself a Murray , with disdain Mayst look on me . Yet , my Demosthenes , Canst thou plead Pleasure's cause as well as I ? Know'st thou her " nature , purpose , parentage ? " Attend my song , and thou shalt know them all ; And know thyself ; and know thyself to be ( Strange truth ! ) the most abstemious man alive . Tell not Calista ! she will laugh thee dead ; Or send thee to her hermitage with L — — . Absurd presumption ! Thou who never knew'st A serious thought , shalt thou dare dream of joy ? No man e'er found a happy life by chance , Or yawn'd it into being with a wish ; Or , with the snout of grovelling Appetite , E'er smelt it out , and grubb'd it from the dirt . An art it is , and must be learn'd ; and learn'd With unremitting effort , or be lost , And leave us perfect blockheads in our bliss . The clouds may drop down titles and estates ; Wealth may seek us ; but Wisdom must be sought ; Sought before all ; but ( how unlike all else We seek on earth ! ) 't is never sought in vain . First , Pleasure's birth , rise , strength , and grandeur see : Brought forth by Wisdom , nursed by Discipline , By Patience taught , by Perseverance crown'd , She rears her head majestic ; round her throne , Erected in the bosom of the just , Each Virtue , listed , forms her manly guard . For what are Virtues ? ( formidable name ! ) What but the fountain or defence of joy ? Why then commanded ? Need mankind commands At once to merit and to make their bliss ? — Great Legislator , scarce so great as kind ! If men are rational , and love delight , Thy gracious law but flatters human choice ; In the transgression lies the penalty ; And they the most indulge who most obey . Of Pleasure next the final cause explore ; Its mighty purpose , its important end . Not to turn human brutal , but to build Divine on human , Pleasure came from heaven . In aid to Reason was the goddess sent ; To call up all its strength by such a charm . Pleasure first succours Virtue ; in return , Virtue gives Pleasure an eternal reign . What but the pleasure of food , friendship , faith , Supports life natural , civil , and Divine ? 'T is from the pleasure of repast we live ; 'T is from the pleasure of applause we please ; 'T is from the pleasure of belief we pray : ( All prayer would cease , if unbelieved the prize : ) It serves ourselves , our species , and our God ; And to serve more , is past the sphere of man . Glide , then , for ever , Pleasure's sacred stream ! Through Eden , as Euphrates ran , it runs , And fosters every growth of happy life ; Makes a new Eden where it flows ; — but such As must be lost , Lorenzo , by thy fall . " What mean I by thy fall ? " — Thou'lt shortly see , While Pleasure's nature is at large display'd ; Already sung her origin and ends . Those glorious ends , by kind , or by degree , When Pleasure violates , 't is then a vice , And vengeance too ; it hastens into pain . From due refreshment , life , health , reason , joy ; From wild excess , pain , grief , distraction , death : Heaven's justice this proclaims , and that her love . What greater evil can I wish my foe , Than his full draught of pleasure , from a cask Unbroach'd by just Authority , ungauged By Temperance , by Reason unrefined ? A thousand demons lurk within the lee . Heaven , others , and ourselves ! uninjured these , Drink deep ; the deeper , then , the more Divine ; Angels are angels from indulgence there ; 'T is unrepenting Pleasure makes a god . Dost think thyself a god from other joys ? A victim rather ! shortly sure to bleed . The wrong must mourn : can Heaven's appointments fail ? Can man outwit Omnipotence ? strike out A self-wrought happiness unmeant by Him Who made us , and the world we would enjoy ? Who forms an instrument , ordains from whence Its dissonance or harmony shall rise . Heaven bade the soul this mortal frame inspire ; Bade Virtue's ray Divine inspire the soul With unprecarious flows of vital joy ; And , without breathing , man as well might hope For life , as , without piety , for peace . " Is Virtue , then , and Piety the same ? " No ; Piety is more ; 't is Virtue's source ; Mother of every worth , as that of joy . Men of the world this doctrine ill digest ; They smile at Piety ; yet boast aloud Good-will to men ; nor know they strive to part What Nature joins ; and thus confute themselves . With Piety begins all good on earth : 'T is the first-born of Rationality . Conscience , her first law broken , wounded lies ; Enfeebled , lifeless , impotent to good ; A feign'd affection bounds her utmost power . Some we can't love but for the' Almighty's sake : A foe to God was ne'er true friend to man ; Some sinister intent taints all he does ; And in his kindest actions he's unkind . On piety humanity is built ; And on humanity much happiness : And yet still more on piety itself . A soul in commerce with her God is heaven ; Feels not the tumults and the shocks of life ; The whirls of passions , and the strokes of heart . A Deity believed , is joy begun ; A Deity adored , is joy advanced ; A Deity beloved , is joy matured . Each branch of piety delight inspires ; Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next , O'er Death's dark gulf , and all its horror hides ; Praise , the sweet exhalation of our joy , That joy exalts , and makes it sweeter still ; Prayer ardent opens heaven , lets down a stream Of glory on the consecrated hour Of man , in audience with the Deity . Who worships the great God , that instant joins The first in heaven , and sets his foot on hell . Lorenzo , when wast thou at church before ? Thou think'st the service long ; but is it just ? Though just , unwelcome ; thou hadst rather tread Unhallow'd ground ; the Muse , to win thine ear , Must take an air less solemn . She complies . Good conscience ! — at the sound the world retires : Verse disaffects it , and Lorenzo smiles ; Yet has she her seraglio full of charms ; And such as age shall heighten , not impair . Art thou dejected ? Is thy mind o'ercast ? Amid her fair ones , thou the fairest choose , Thy gloom to chase . — " Go , fix some weighty truth ; Chain down some passion ; do some generous good ; Teach Ignorance to see , or Grief to smile ; Correct thy friend ; befriend thy greatest foe ; Or , with warm heart , and confidence Divine , Spring up , and lay strong hold on Him who made thee . " Thy gloom is scatter'd , sprightly spirits flow , Though wither'd is thy vine , and harp unstrung . Dost call the bowl , the viol , and the dance , Loud mirth , mad laughter ? Wretched comforters ! Physicians , more than half of thy disease ! Laughter , though never censured yet as sin , ( Pardon a thought that only seems severe , ) Is half-immoral : is it much indulged ? By venting spleen , or dissipating thought , It shows a scorner , or it makes a fool ; And sins , as hurting others or ourselves . 'T is Pride , or Emptiness , applies the straw That tickles little minds to mirth effuse ; Of grief approaching , the portentous sign ! The house of laughter makes a house of woe . A man triumphant is a monstrous sight ; A man dejected is a sight as mean . What cause for triumph where such ills abound ? What for dejection , where presides a Power Who call'd us into being to be bless'd ? So grieve , as conscious grief may rise to joy ; So joy , as conscious joy to grief may fall . Most true , a wise man never will be sad : But neither will sonorous , bubbling mirth A shallow stream of happiness betray : Too happy to be sportive , he's serene . Yet wouldst thou laugh , ( but at thy own expense , ) This counsel strange should I presume to give : — " Retire , and read thy Bible , to be gay . " There truths abound of sovereign aid to peace ; Ah ! do not prize them less because inspired , As thou and thine are apt and proud to do . If not inspired , that pregnant page had stood Time's treasure , and the wonder of the wise ! Thou think'st , perhaps , thy soul alone at stake ; Alas ! should men mistake thee for a fool , What man of taste for genius , wisdom , truth , Though tender of thy fame , could interpose ? Believe me , Sense here acts a double part , And the true critic is a Christian too . But these , thou think'st , are gloomy paths to joy . — True joy in sunshine ne'er was found at first . They first themselves offend , who greatly please ; And travail only gives us sound repose . Heaven sells all pleasure ; effort is the price ; The joys of conquest are the joys of man ; And Glory the victorious laurel spreads O'er Pleasure's pure , perpetual , placid stream . There is a time when toil must be preferr'd , Or Joy , by mis-timed fondness , is undone . A man of pleasure is a man of pains . Thou wilt not take the trouble to be bless'd . False joys , indeed , are born from want of thought ; From thought's full bent and energy , the true ; And that demands a mind in equal poise , Remote from gloomy grief and glaring joy . Much joy not only speaks small happiness , But happiness that shortly must expire . Can joy , unbottom'd in reflection , stand ? And in a tempest can reflection live ? Can joy like thine secure itself an hour ? Can joy like thine meet accident unshock'd ? Or ope the door to honest Poverty ? Or talk with threatening Death , and not turn pale ? In such a world , and such a nature , these Are needful fundamentals of delight : These fundamentals give delight indeed ; Delight , pure , delicate , and durable ; Delight , unshaken , masculine , Divine ; A constant and a sound , but serious , joy . " Is Joy the daughter of Severity ? " It is : — yet far my doctrine from severe . " Rejoice for ever ! " it becomes a man ; Exalts , and sets him nearer to the gods . " Rejoice for ever , " Nature cries , " rejoice ! " And drinks to man in her nectareous cup , Mix'd up of delicates for every sense ; To the great Founder of the bounteous feast Drinks glory , gratitude , eternal praise ; And he that will not pledge her is a churl . Ill firmly to support , good fully taste , Is the whole science of felicity . Yet sparing pledge : her bowl is not the best Mankind can boast . — " A rational repast ; Exertion , vigilance , a mind in arms , A military discipline of thought , To foil Temptation in the doubtful field ; And ever-waking ardour for the right : " 'T is these first give , then guard , a cheerful heart . Nought that is right think little ; well aware , What Reason bids , God bids ; by His command How aggrandized the smallest thing we do ! Thus nothing is insipid to the wise : To thee insipid all but what is mad ; Joys season'd high , and tasting strong of guilt . " Mad ! " ( thou repliest , with indignation fired : ) " Of ancient sages proud to tread the steps , I follow Nature . " — Follow Nature still , But look it be thine own : is Conscience then No part of Nature ? Is she not supreme ? Thou regicide ! O raise her from the dead ! Then follow Nature , and resemble God . When , spite of Conscience , Pleasure is pursued , Man's nature is unnaturally pleased : And what's unnatural is painful too At intervals , and must disgust e'en thee ! The fact thou know'st , but not perhaps the cause . Virtue's foundations with the world's were laid ; Heaven mix'd her with our make , and twisted close Her sacred interests with the strings of life . Who breaks her awful mandate , shocks himself , His better self : and is it greater pain , Our soul should murmur , or our dust repine ? And one , in their eternal war , must bleed . If one must suffer , which should least be spared ? The pains of mind surpass the pains of sense : Ask , then , the Gout , what torment is in guilt . The joys of sense to mental joys are mean : Sense on the present only feeds ; the soul On past and future forages for joy . 'T is hers , by retrospect , through time to range ; And , forward , Time's great sequel to survey . Could human courts take vengeance on the mind , Axes might rust , and racks and gibbets fall : Guard then thy mind , and leave the rest to fate . Lorenzo , wilt thou never be a man ? The man is dead , who for the body lives , Lured , by the beating of his pulse , to list With every lust that wars against his peace ; And sets him quite at variance with himself . Thyself first know , then love : a self there is Of Virtue fond , that kindles at her charms . A self there is , as fond of every vice , While every virtue wounds it to the heart ! Humility degrades it , Justice robs , Bless'd Bounty beggars it , fair Truth betrays , And godlike Magnanimity destroys . This self , when rival to the former , scorn ; When not in competition , kindly treat , Defend it , feed it : — but when Virtue bids , Toss it or to the fowls , or to the flames . And why ? 'T is Love of Pleasure bids thee bleed ; Comply , or own Self-Love extinct , or blind . For what is Vice ? Self-Love in a mistake : A poor blind merchant buying joys too dear . And Virtue , what ? 'T is Self-Love in her wits , Quite skilful in the market of Delight . Self-Love's good sense is love of that dread Power , From whom herself , and all she can enjoy . Other Self-Love is but disguised Self-Hate ; More mortal than the malice of our foes ; A Self-Hate now scarce felt ; then felt full sore , When Being cursed , Extinction loud implored , And every thing preferr'd to what we are . Yet this Self-Love Lorenzo makes his choice ; And , in this choice triumphant , boasts of joy . How is his want of happiness betray'd , By disaffection to the present hour ! Imagination wanders far afield : The future pleases : why ? The present pains . — " But that's a secret . " — Yes , which all men know ; And know from thee , discover'd unawares . Thy ceaseless agitation , restless roll From cheat to cheat , impatient of a pause ; What is it ? — Tis the cradle of the Soul , From Instinct sent , to rock her in disease , Which her physician , Reason , will not cure . A poor expedient ! yet thy best ; and while It mitigates thy pain , it owns it too . Such are Lorenzo's wretched remedies ! The weak have remedies ; the wise have joys . Superior wisdom is superior bliss . And what sure mark distinguishes the wise ? Consistent Wisdom ever wills the same ; Thy fickle wish is ever on the wing . Sick of herself , is Folly's character ; As Wisdom's is , a modest self-applause . A change of evils is thy good supreme ; Nor , but in motion , canst thou find thy rest . Man's greatest strength is shown in standing still . The first sure symptom of a mind in health Is rest of heart , and pleasure felt at home . False Pleasure from abroad her joys imports ; Rich from within , and self-sustain'd , the true . The true is fix'd , and solid as a rock ; Slippery the false , and tossing as the wave . This , a wild wanderer on earth , like Cain : That , like the fabled self-enamour'd boy , Home-contemplation her supreme delight ; She dreads an interruption from without , Smit with her own condition ; and the more Intense she gazes , still 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 angels all , entitled to repose On Him who governs fate : though Tempest frowns , Though Nature shakes , how soft to lean on Heaven ! To lean on Him on whom archangels lean ! With inward eyes , and silent as the grave , They stand collecting every beam of thought , Till their hearts kindle with Divine delight ; For all their thoughts , like angels seen of old In Israel's dream , come from , and go to , heaven : Hence are they studious of sequester'd scenes ; While noise and dissipation comfort thee . Were all men happy , revellings would cease , That opiate for inquietude within . Lorenzo ! never man was truly bless'd , But it composed , and gave him such a cast , As Folly might mistake for want of joy : A cast unlike the triumph of the proud ; A modest aspect , and a smile at heart . O for a joy from thy Philander's spring ! A spring perennial , rising in the breast , And permanent as pure ! no turbid stream Of rapturous exultation , swelling high ; Which , like land-floods , impetuous pour awhile , Then sink at once , and leave us in the mire . What does the man who transient joy prefers ? What , but prefer the bubbles to the stream ? Vain are all sudden sallies of delight ; Convulsions of a weak , distemper'd joy : Joy's a fix'd state ; a tenure , not a start . Bliss there is none , but unprecarious bliss : That is the gem : sell all , and purchase that . Why go a-begging to contingencies , Not gain'd with ease , nor safely loved , if gain'd ? At good fortuitous , draw back , and pause ; Suspect it ; what thou canst insure , enjoy ; And nought but what thou givest thyself is sure . Reason perpetuates joy that Reason gives , And makes it as immortal as herself : To mortals , nought immortal but their worth . Worth , conscious Worth , should absolutely reign , And other Joys ask leave for their approach ; Nor , unexamined , ever leave obtain . Thou art all anarchy ; a mob of Joys Wage war , and perish in intestine broils ; Not the least promise of internal peace ! No bosom-comfort , or unborrow'd bliss ! Thy Thoughts are vagabonds ; all outward-bound , Mid sands , and rocks , and storms , to cruise for pleasure ; If gain'd , dear-bought ; and better miss'd than gain'd . Much pain must expiate what much pain procured . Fancy and Sense from an infected shore , Thy cargo bring ; and pestilence the prize . Then , such thy thirst , ( insatiable thirst ! By fond indulgence but inflamed the more ! ) Fancy still cruises when poor Sense is tired . Imagination is the Paphian shop , Where feeble Happiness , like Vulcan , lame , Bids foul Ideas , in their dark recess , And hot as hell , ( which kindled the black fires , ) With wanton art , those fatal arrows form Which murder all thy time , health , wealth , and fame . Wouldst thou receive them , other Thoughts there are , On angel-wing , descending from above , Which these , with art Divine , would counterwork , And form celestial armour for thy peace . In this is seen Imagination's guilt ; But who can count her follies ? She betrays thee To think in grandeur there is something great . For works of curious art , and ancient fame , Thy genius hungers , elegantly pain'd ; And foreign climes must cater for thy taste . Hence , what disaster ! — Though the price was paid , That persecuting priest , the Turk of Rome , Whose foot , ( ye gods ! ) though cloven , must be kiss'd , Detain'd thy dinner on the Latian shore ; ( Such is the fate of honest Protestants ! ) And poor Magnificence is starved to death . Hence just resentment , indignation , ire ! — Be pacified : if outward things are great , 'T is magnanimity great things to scorn ; Pompous expenses , and parades august , And courts , — that insalubrious soil to peace ! True happiness ne'er enter'd at an eye ; True happiness resides in things unseen . No smiles of Fortune ever bless'd the bad , Nor can her frowns rob Innocence of joys ; That jewel wanting , triple crowns are poor : So tell His Holiness , and be revenged . Pleasure , we both agree , is man's chief good ; Our only contest , what deserves the name . Give Pleasure's name to nought but what has pass'd The' authentic seal of Reason , ( which , like Yorke , Demurs on what it passes , ) and defies The tooth of Time ; when pass'd , a pleasure still ; Dearer on trial , lovelier for its age , And doubly to be prized , as it promotes Our future , while it forms our present , joy . Some joys the future overcast ; and some Throw all their beams that way , and gild the tomb . Some joys endear eternity ; some give Abhorr'd annihilation dreadful charms . Are rival joys contending for thy choice ? Consult thy whole existence , and be safe ; That oracle will put all doubt to flight . Short is the lesson , though my lecture long : " Be good " — and let Heaven answer for the rest . Yet , with a sigh 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 obscure his sublunary day , But never conquer : e'en the best must own , Patience and Resignation are the pillars Of human Peace on earth . The pillars , these : But those of Seth not more remote from thee , Till this heroic lesson thou hast learn'd , To frown at pleasure , and to smile in pain . Fired at the prospect of unclouded bliss , Heaven in reversion , like the sun , as yet Beneath the' horizon , cheers us in this world ; It sheds , on souls susceptible of light , The glorious dawn of our eternal day . " This , " says Lorenzo , " is a fair harangue : But can harangues blow back strong Nature's stream ; Or stem the tide Heaven pushes through our veins , Which sweeps away man's impotent resolves , And lays his labour level with the world ? " Themselves men make their comment on mankind ; And think nought is but what they find at home : Thus weakness to chimera turns the truth . Nothing romantic has the Muse prescribed . Above , Lorenzo saw the man of earth , The mortal man ; and wretched was the sight . To balance that , to comfort and exalt , Now see the man immortal : him , I mean , Who lives as such ; whose heart , full-bent on heaven , Leans all that way , his bias to the stars . The world's dark shades , in contrast set , shall raise His lustre more , though bright without a foil . Observe his awful portrait , and admire ; Nor stop at wonder ; imitate , and live . Some angel guide my pencil , while I draw , What nothing less than angel can exceed , A man on earth devoted to the Skies , Like ships in seas , while in , above , the world ! With aspect mild , and elevated eye , Behold him seated on a mount serene , Above the fogs of Sense , and Passion's storm : All the black cares and tumults of this life , Like harmless thunders breaking at his feet , Excite his pity , not impair his peace . Earth's genuine sons , the sceptred , and the slave , A mingled mob , a wandering herd , he sees , Bewilder'd in the vale ; in all unlike ! His full reverse in all ! What higher praise ? What stronger demonstration of the right ? The present all their care ; the future his . When public welfare calls , or private want , They give to fame ; his bounty he conceals . Their virtues varnish nature ; his exalt . Mankind's esteem they court ; and he his own . Theirs the wild chase of false felicities ; His the composed possession of the true . Alike throughout is his consistent peace , All of one colour , and an even thread ; While party-colour'd shreds of happiness , With hideous gaps between , patch up for them A madman's robe ; each puff of Fortune blows The tatters by , and shows their nakedness . He sees with other eyes than theirs : where they Behold a sun , he spies a Deity ; What makes them only smile , makes him adore ; Where they see mountains , he but atoms sees ; An empire , in his balance , weighs a grain . They things terrestrial worship as Divine ; His hopes immortal blow them by as dust , That dims his sight , and shortens his survey , Which longs , in infinite , to lose all bound . Titles and honours ( if they prove his fate ) He lays aside to find his dignity ; No dignity they find in aught besides . They triumph in externals , ( which conceal Man's real glory , ) proud of an eclipse . Himself too much he prizes to be proud , And nothing thinks so great in man as MAN . Too dear he holds his interest , to neglect Another's welfare , or his right invade ; Their interest , like a lion , lives on prey . They kindle at the shadow of a wrong : Wrong he sustains with temper , looks on Heaven , Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe ; Nought but what wounds his virtue wounds his peace . A cover'd heart their character defends ; A cover'd heart denies him half his praise . With nakedness his innocence agrees ; While their broad foliage testifies their fall . Their no-joys end where his full feast begins ; His joys create , theirs murder , future bliss . To triumph in existence , his alone ; And his alone , triumphantly to think His true existence is not yet begun . His glorious course was , yesterday , complete : Death then was welcome ; yet life still is sweet . But nothing charms Lorenzo like the firm , Undaunted breast . — And whose is that high praise ? They yield to pleasure , though they danger brave , And show no fortitude but in the field ; If there they show it , 't is for glory shown : Nor will that cordial always man their hearts . A cordial his sustains that cannot fail : By pleasure unsubdued , unbroke by pain , He shares in that Omnipotence he trusts ; All-bearing , all-attempting , till he falls ; And , when he falls , writes VICI on his shield : From magnanimity , all fear above ; From nobler recompence , above applause , Which owes to man's short out-look all its charms . Backward to credit what he never felt , Lorenzo cries , — " Where shines this miracle ? From what root rises this immortal man ? " A root that grows not in Lorenzo's ground : The root dissect , nor wonder at the flower . He follows nature , ( not like thee ! ) and shows us An uninverted system of a man . His appetite wears Reason's golden chain , And finds in due restraint its luxury . His passion , like an eagle well reclaim'd , Is taught to fly at nought but infinite . Patient his hope , unanxious is his care , His caution fearless , and his grief ( if grief The gods ordain ) a stranger to despair . And why ? — Because affection , more than meet , His wisdom leaves not disengaged from Heaven . Those secondary goods that smile on earth , He , loving in proportion , loves in peace . They most the world enjoy , who least admire . His understanding 'scapes the common cloud Of fumes arising from a boiling breast . His head is clear , because his heart is cool , By worldly competitions uninflamed . The moderate movements of his soul admit Distinct ideas , and matured debate , An eye impartial , and an even scale : Whence judgment sound , and unrepenting choice . Thus , in a double sense , the good are wise ; On its own dunghill , wiser than the world . What then the world ? It must be doubly weak ; Strange truth ! as soon would they believe the Creed . Yet thus it is ; nor otherwise can be ; So far from aught romantic what I sing . Bliss has no being , Virtue has no strength , But from the prospect of immortal life . Who think earth all , or ( what weighs just the same ) Who care no farther , must prize what it yields ; Fond of its fancies , proud of its parades . Who thinks earth nothing , can't its charms admire ; He can't a foe , though most malignant , hate , Because that hate would prove his greater foe . 'T is hard for them ( yet who so loudly boast Good-will to men ? ) to love their dearest friend ; For may not he invade their good supreme , Where the least jealousy turns love to gall ? All shines to them , that for a season shines . Each act , each thought , he questions , " What its weight , Its colour what , a thousand ages hence ? " And what it there appears , he deems it now . Hence , pure are the recesses of his soul ; The god-like man has nothing to conceal . His virtue , constitutionally deep , Has Habit's firmness , and Affection's flame ; Angels , allied , descend to feed the fire ; And Death , which others slays , makes him a god . And now , Lorenzo , bigot of this world , Wont to disdain poor bigots caught by Heaven ! Stand by thy scorn , and be reduced to nought : For what art thou ? — Thou boaster ! while thy glare , Thy gaudy grandeur , and mere worldly worth , Like a broad mist , at distance strikes us most ; And , like a mist , is nothing when at hand ; His merit , like a mountain , on approach , Swells more , and rises nearer to the skies , By promise now , and by possession soon , ( Too soon , too much , it cannot be , ) his own . From this thy just annihilation rise , Lorenzo ! rise to something , by reply . The World , thy client , listens and expects ; And longs to crown thee with immortal praise . Canst thou be silent ? No ; for Wit is thine ; And Wit talks most when least she has to say , And Reason interrupts not her career . She'll say , that " mists above the mountains rise ; " And with a thousand pleasantries amuse . She'll sparkle , puzzle , flutter , raise a dust , And fly conviction in the dust she raised . Wit , how delicious to man's dainty taste ! 'T is 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 , Dulness , blundering on vivacities , Shakes her sage head at the calamity Which has exposed 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 , 't is 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 loves , And thinks herself the lightning of the storm . In states , 't is dangerous ; in religion , death : Shall Wit turn Christian , when the dull believe ? Sense is our helmet , Wit is but the plume ; The plume exposes , 't is our helmet saves . Sense is the diamond , weighty , solid , sound ; When cut by Wit , it casts a brighter beam ; Yet , Wit apart , it is a diamond still . Wit , widow'd of Good Sense , is worse than nought ; It hoists more sail 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 allure 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 , through the well-toned tubes well-strain'd ; A nice machine ! scarce ever tuned 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 immersed , 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 ! every 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 : The' inverted pyramid can never stand . Is this truth doubtful ? It outshines the sun ; Nay , the sun shines not but to show 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 , achieve ? ) They talk themselves to something like belief , That all earth's joys are theirs : as Athens' fool Grinn'd from the port on every 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 show us what their joy by their despair . The clotted hair ! gored breast ! blaspheming eye ! Its impious fury still alive in death ! Shut , shut the shocking scene ! — But Heaven denies A cover to such guilt ; and so should man . Look round , Lorenzo ! see the reeking blade , The' envenom'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 bless'd : 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 , exercised 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-privileged 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 heaven : Sole point , where over-bashful is your blame ! Are you not wise ? — You know you are : yet hear One truth , amid your numerous schemes , mislaid , Or overlook'd , or thrown aside , if seen : — " Our schemes to plan by this world , or the next , Is the sole difference between wise and fool . " All worthy men will weigh you in this scale ; What wonder , then , if they pronounce