LIFE
.
(
Occasion'd
by
some
lines
upon
Death
.
)
Say
,
Delia
,
has
not
Death
a
pain
Beyond
what
mortals
fear
,
or
feign
?
Beyond
th'
oppressor's
scourge
,
or
scorn
?
Beyond
what
suff'ring
worth
may
mourn
?
Do
not
the
wise
,
the
learn'd
,
the
great
,
At
his
approach
,
appall'd
,
retreat
?
Do
not
the
brave
with
horror
start
,
And
,
shock'd
,
betray
th'
unconquer'd
heart
?
To
Death
for
ease
we
fly
in
vain
,
And
pleasure
lose
for
certain
pain
.
Nor
is
this
all
.
The
conscious
mind
Connects
an
awful
scene
behind
:
Where
ev'ry
crime
shall
be
expos'd
,
And
ev'ry
secret
guilt
disclos'd
;
Where
hearts
unus'd
to
melt
,
shall
bleed
,
And
sad
remorse
,
with
pangs
succeed
.
Then
cease
awhile
the
doubtful
strife
,
And
,
reconcil'd
,
look
back
on
life
.
How
full
of
smiles
is
it
begun
!
With
what
delight
does
youth
glide
on
!
What
pleasures
sparkle
in
our
eyes
,
When
first
the
infant
passions
rise
!
If
Love
invades
the
sprightly
veins
,
With
all
its
cares
,
and
pleasing
pains
;
Tho'
absence
heighten
the
distress
,
Or
jealous
fears
disturb
our
peace
;
Tho'
the
soft
flame
,
with
which
we
burn
,
Be
pay'd
with
pride
,
neglect
,
or
scorn
;
Slight
he
the
nymph
,
or
she
the
swain
,
Yet
there's
a
pleasure
in
the
pain
.
In
Friendship
what
relief
we
find
!
What
ease
,
from
int'rests
thus
combin'd
;
By
mutual
ties
of
honour
bound
,
How
kind
,
how
faithful
,
Friends
are
found
!
How
full
each
word
!
how
fair
each
deed
!
(
Save
just
in
case
of
real
need
)
Without
reserve
their
joys
they
share
,
And
by
dividing
,
lessen
care
.
What
tho'
dull
moralists
of
old
,
Strange
tales
of
broken
faith
have
told
;
What
tho'
there
were
,
for
private
ends
,
Those
who
debas'd
the
name
of
friends
;
Yet
these
were
things
done
long
ago
,
The
world
is
strangely
mended
now
!
And
in
this
upright
age
we
see
,
Friends
are
—
what
they
appear
to
be
.
Next
young
Ambition
smiling
brings
Alternate
joy
to
Slaves
and
Kings
.
The
Monarch
,
lo
!
in
transports
hurl'd
,
Surveys
in
thought
a
conquer'd
world
.
The
Peasant
o'er
his
clod
espies
Preferments
,
riches
,
honours
rise
;
Till
,
(
what
sometimes
is
vastly
odd
)
The
vision
flies
,
and
leaves
the
clod
:
Yet
Expectation
gilds
his
joys
;
Fruition
only
cures
,
and
cloys
.
Gay
,
blooming
Expectation
strays
To
charming
scenes
,
thro'
charming
ways
;
With
wondrous
art
it
can
foresee
What
never
was
,
nor
e'er
can
be
:
Yet
who
would
wish
to
spy
the
cheat
?
Or
who'd
not
hug
the
dear
deceit
?
Since
life's
prime
bliss
,
it
is
believ'd
,
Consists
in
being
—
well-deceiv'd
.
Nor
must
we
laugh
at
,
nor
may
blame
The
man
who
thirsts
,
or
bleeds
for
Fame
.
Renown
,
tho'
late
,
at
length
succeeds
,
To
recompence
his
glorious
deeds
;
And
tho'
it
comes
not
till
his
fall
,
'Tis
better
late
—
than
not
at
all
.
Observe
the
Man
of
dress
,
and
lace
:
How
soft
his
air
!
how
sweet
his
face
!
The
youth
has
lov'd
,
and
learnt
to
dance
:
And
now
he
travels
into
France
,
Fresh
manners
to
import
,
and
mark
The
sword-knot
of
the
Grand
Monarque
.
Then
,
fine
and
finish'd
,
homeward
roves
,
Each
taste
corrects
,
refines
,
improves
;
Admires
awhile
,
and
is
admir'd
;
And
tiring
others
,
till
he's
tir'd
,
Walks
off
,
a
little
sick
of
life
,
And
takes
,
by
way
of
cure
,
a
Wife
:
Enquires
—
whose
house
is
to
be
let
,
(
His
own
being
quitted
for
a
debt
)
Then
,
as
his
finances
require
,
To
frugal
Yorkshire
does
retire
,
And
ends
a
plain
,
contented
'
Squire
.
Nor
Youth
alone
has
joy
in
view
,
Age
has
its
satisfactions
too
.
Who
envies
not
the
miser's
store
?
Who
seeming
rich
,
and
really
poor
,
Yet
that
one
passion
,
lust
of
gain
,
Supports
him
under
ev'ry
pain
:
Amidst
a
thousand
ills
he'll
thrive
,
And
think
it
worth
his
while
to
live
.
The
venerable
Sage
,
who
deals
In
long
,
insipid
,
ancient
tales
,
Who
dwells
on
feats
of
former
times
,
And
loudly
taxes
modern
crimes
;
Whose
tedious
lore
at
morn's
begun
,
And
ends
but
with
the
setting
sun
;
At
ninety
odd
,
this
happy
man
Repines
,
that
life
is
but
a
span
!
That
as
the
sparks
fly
upwards
all
,
So
mortal
man
is
doom'd
to
fall
!
That
flesh
is
grass
;
and
like
the
flow'r
,
Springs
,
blooms
,
and
dies
within
an
hour
!
—
More
truths
,
perhaps
,
he
might
unfold
;
But
ah
!
he
dies
;
his
tale
is
told
.
Nor
are
these
all
the
joys
of
age
:
Love
may
exert
its
feebler
rage
Thro'
each
re-animated
vein
,
Enliv'ning
all
the
heart
again
:
Past
scenes
restoring
to
its
view
,
And
warmth
,
as
well
as
youth
renew
.
Nor
this
prepost'rous
call
,
or
strange
;
Winter
itself
,
grown
old
,
will
change
,
And
put
Spring's
youthful
liv'ry
on
,
Pervaded
by
the
gen'rous
sun
.
Delia
,
if
this
is
Life
,
and
these
Can
pass
it
off
with
so
much
ease
;
Or
all-enamour'd
with
the
scene
,
Would
act
it
o'er
and
o'er
again
:
If
these
can
taste
the
present
hour
,
What
joys
has
Wisdom
in
her
pow'r
!
Who
leads
,
with
lasting
pleasure
blest
,
Fair
Virtue
,
ever-chearful
guest
!
The
constant
inmates
of
your
breast
.
With
Delia
,
Love's
a
gentle
flame
,
Whose
source
is
honour
and
esteem
.
Her
Friendship
still
is
more
refin'd
,
A
gen'rous
sympathy
of
mind
.
Ambitious
—
only
to
excell
,
And
be
supreme
in
doing
well
.
And
hence
,
as
a
reward
,
may
claim
Our
just
returns
of
Praise
,
and
Fame
.
Live
then
,
and
condescend
to
taste
,
Tho'
you're
digusted
with
the
feast
;
Live
for
your
own
,
for
Virtue's
sake
,
And
Pleasure
with
the
Wise
partake
:
And
(
if
the
fates
so
much
decree
)
A
little
longer
live
—
for
Me
.