ut if through genuine tenderness of heart, r secret want of relish for the game, ou shun the glories of the chase, nor care
haunt the peopled stream; the garden yields soft amusement, an humane delight. raise th' insipid nature of the ground; r tame its savage genius to the grace of careless sweet rusticity, that seems he amiable result of happy chance, s to create; and gives a god-like joy, Which every year improves. Nor thou disdain o check the lawless riot of the trees, o plant the grove, or turn the barren mould. happy he! whom, when his years decline, His fortune and his fame by worthy means Attain'd, and equal to his moderate mind; "His life approv'd by all the wise and good, Even envied by the vain,) the peaceful groves Of Epicurus, from this stormy world, Receive to rest; of all ungrateful cares Absolv'd, and sacred from the selfish crowd. "Happiest of men! if the same soil invites 1 chosen few, companions of his youth, Once fellow-rakes perhaps, now rural friends; With whom in easy commerce to pursue Nature's free charms, and vie for sylvan fame : A fair ambition; void of strife or guile, Or jealousy, or pain to be outdone. Who plans th' enchanted garden, who directs The vista best, and best conducts the stream: Whose groves the fastest thicken and ascend; Whom first the welcome Spring salutes; who shows The earliest bloom, the sweetest proudest charms Of Flora; who best gives Pomona's juice To match the sprightly genius of champagne. Thrice happy days! in rural business past : Blest winter nights! when, as the genial fire Cheers the wide hall, his cordial family With soft domestic arts the hours beguile, And pleasing talk that starts no timorous fame, With witless wantonness to hunt it down : Or through the fairy-land of tale or song Delighted wander, in fictitious fates Engag'd, and all that strikes humanity : Till lost in fable, they the stealing hour Of timely rest forget. Sometimes, at eve His neighbours lift the latch, and bless unbid His festal roof; while, o'er the light repast, And sprightly cups, they mix in social joy; And, through the maze of conversation, trace Whate'er amuses or improves the mind. Sometimes at eve (for I delight to taste The native zest and flavour of the fruit, Where sense grows wild and tastes of no manure) The decent, honest, cheerful husbandman Should drown his labour in my friendly bowl; And at my table find himself at home.
Whate'er you study, in whate'er you sweat, Indulge your taste. Some love the manly foils; The tennis some; and some the graceful dance. Others, more hardy, range the purple heath, Or naked stubble; where, from field to field, The sounding coveys urge their labouring flight; Eager amid the rising cloud to pour The gun's unerring thunder: and there are Whom still the meed of the green archer charms. He chooses best, whose labour entertains
*This word is much used by some of the old English poets, and signifies reward or prize.
His vacant fancy most: the toil you hate Fatigues you soon, and scarce improves your limbs. As beauty still has blemish, and the mind The most accomplish'd its imperfect side, Few bodies are there of that happy mould But some one part is weaker than the rest : The legs, perhaps, or arms refuse their load, Or the chest labours. These assiduously, But gently, in their proper arts employ'd, Acquire a vigour and springy activity, To which they were not born. But weaker parts Abhor fatigue and violent discipline.
Begin with gentle toils; and as your nerves Grow firm, to hardier by just steps aspire; The prudent, even in every moderate walk, At first but saunter, and by slow degrees Increase their pace. This doctrine of the wise Well knows the master of the flying steed. First from the goal the manag'd coursers play On bended reins; as yet the skilful youth Repress their foamy pride; but every breath The race grows warmer, and the tempest swells, Till all the fiery mettle has its way,
And the thick thunder hurries o'er the plain. When all at once from indolence to toil You spring, the fibres by the hasty shock
Are tir'd and crack'd, before their unctuous coats, Compress'd, can pour the lubricating balm. Besides, collected in the passive veins, The purple mass a sudden torrent rolls, O'erpowers the heart, and deluges the lungs With dangerous inundation; oft the source Of fatal woes; a cough that foams with blood, Asthma, and feller peripneumony †, Or the slow minings of the hectic fire.
Th' athletic fool, to whom what Heaven deny'd Of soul is well compensated in limbs, Oft from his rage, or brainless frolic, feels His vegetation and brute force decay. The men of better clay and finer mould Know nature, feel the human dignity, And scorn to vie with oxen or with apes. Pursu'd prolixly, even the gentlest toil Is waste of health: repose by small fatigue Is earn'd, and (where your habit is not prone To thaw) by the first moisture of the brows. The fine and subtle spirits cost too much To be profus'd, too much the roscid balm. But when the hard varieties of life You toil to learn, or try the dusty chase, Or the warm deeds of some important day : Hot from the field, indulge not yet your limbs In wish'd repose; nor court the fanning gale, Nor taste the spring. O! by the sacred tears Of widows, orphans, mothers, sisters, sires, Forbear! no other pestilence has driven Such myriads o'er th' irremeable deep. Why this so fatal, the sagacious Muse Through nature's cunning labyrinths could trace: But there are secrets which who knows not now, Must, ere he reach them, climb the heapy Alps Of science; and devote seven years to toil. Besides, I would not stun your patient ears With what it little boots you to attain. He knows enough, the mariner, who knows Where lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools
He leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause Charybdis rages in th' Ionian wave; Whence those impetuous currents in the main Which neither oar nor sail can stem; and why The roughening deep expects the storm, as sure As red Orion mounts the shrouded Heaven.
In ancient times, when Rome with Athens vied For polish'd luxury and useful arts; All hot and reeking from th' Olympic strife, And warm Palestra, in the tepid bath
Th' athletic youth relax'd their weary limbs. Soft oils bedew'd them, with the grateful pow'rs Of nard and cassia fraught, to soothe and heal The cherish'd nerves. Our less voluptuous clime Not much invites us to such arts as these. 'Tis not for those, whom gelid skies embrace, And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feels Such frequent bars from Eurus and the North; 'T is not for those to cultivate a skin Too soft: or teach the recremental fume Too fast to crowd through such precarious ways. For through the small arterial mouths, that pierce In endless millions the close-woven skin, The baser fluids in a constant stream Escape, and viewless melt into the winds. While this eternal, this most copious waste Of blood, degenerates into vapid brine, Maintains its wonted measure, all the powers Of health befriend you, all the wheels of life With ease and pleasure move: but this restrain'd Or more or less, so more or less you feel The functions labour: from this fatal source What woes descend is never to be sung.
To take their numbers, were to count the sands That ride in whirlwind the parch'd Libyan air; Or waves that, when the blustering North embroils The Baltic, thunder on the German shore. Subject not then, by soft emollient arts, This grand expense, on which your fates depend, To every caprice of the sky; nor thwart The genius of your clime: for from the blood Least fickle rise the recremental steams, And least obnoxious to the styptic air,
Which breathe through straiter and more callous pores.
The temper'd Scythian hence, half-naked treads His boundless snows, nor rues th' inclement Heaven; And hence our painted ancestors defied The east; nor curs'd, like us, their fickle sky. The body, moulded by the clime, endures The equator heats or hyperborean frost : Except by habits foreign to its turn, Unwise you counteract its forming pow'r. Rude at the first, the winter shocks you less By long acquaintance: study then your sky, Form to its manners your obsequious frame, And learn to suffer what you cannot shun. Against the rigors of a damp cold heav'n To fortify their bodies, some frequent The gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids, I praise their dauntless heart: a frame so steel'd Dreads not the cough, nor those ungenial blasts That breathe the tertian or fell rheumatism; The nerves so temper'd never quit their tone, No chronic languors haunt such hardy breasts, But all things have their bounds; and he who
By daily use the kindest regimen Essential to his health, should never mix With human kind, nor art nor trade pursue.
He not the safe vicissitudes of life Without some shock endures; ill-fitted he To want the known, or bear unusual things Besides, the powerful remedies of pain (Since pain in spite of all our care will come) Should never with your prosperous days of health Grow too familiar: for by frequent use The strongest medicines lose their healing power, And even the surest poisons theirs to kill.
Let those who from the frozen Arctos reach Parch'd Mauritania, or the sultry west, Or the wide flood that laves rich Indostan, Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave Untwist their stubborn pores; that full and free Th' evaporation through the soften'd skin May bear proportion to the swelling blood. So may they 'scape the fever's rapid flames; So feel untainted the hot breath of Hell. With us, the man of no complaint demands The warm ablution just enough to clear The sluices of the skin, enough to keep The body sacred from indecent soil. Still to be pure, ev'n did it not conduce (As much it does) to health, were greatly worth Your daily pains. "T is this adorns the rich; The want of this is poverty's worst woe; With this external virtue, age maintains A decent grace; without it, youth and charms Are loathsome. This the venal graces know; So doubtless do your wives: for married sires, As well as lovers, still pretend to taste; Nor is it less (all prudent wives can tell) To lose a husband's than a lover's heart. But now the hours and seasons when to toil From foreign themes recall my wandering song. Some labour fasting, or but slightly fed To lull the grinding stomach's hungry rage. Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame 'Tis wisely done: for while the thirsty veins, Impatient of lean penury, devour
The treasur'd oil, then is the happiest time To shake the lazy balsam from its cells. Now while the stomach from the full repast Subsides, but ere returning hunger gnaws, Ye leaner habits, give an hour to toil; And ye whom no luxuriancy of growth Oppresses yet, or threatens to oppress. But from the recent meal no labours please, Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers Claim all the wandering spirits to a work Of strong and subtle toil, and great event: A work of time; and you may rue the day You hurried, with untimely exercise, A half-concocted chyle into the blood. The body overcharged with unctuous phlegm Much toil demands: the lean elastic less. While winter chills the blood and binds the veins, No labours are too hard: by those you 'scape The slow diseases of the torpid year; Endless to name; to one of which alone, To that which tears the nerves, the toil of slaves Is pleasure: Oh! from such inhuman pains May all be free who merit not the wheel! But from the burning Lion when the Sun Pours down his sultry wrath; now while the blood Too much already maddens in the veins, And all the finer fluids through the skin Explore their flight; me, near the cool cascade Reclin'd, or saunt'ring in the lofty grove, No needless slight occasion should engage
pant and sweat beneath the fiery noon. w the fresh morn alone and mellow eve shady walks and active rural sports vite. But, while the chilling dews descend, y nothing tempt you to the cold embrace humid skies; though 't is no vulgar joy trace the horrours of the solemn wood hile the soft evening saddens into night: ough the sweet poet of the vernal groves elts all the night in strains of am'rous woe. The shades descend, and midnight o'er the world pands her sable wings. Great nature droops rough all her works. Now happy he whose toil as o'er his languid powerless limbs diffus'd pleasing lassitude: he not in vain vokes the gentle deity of dreams. is powers the most voluptuously dissolve soft repose on him the balmy dews sleep with double nutriment descend.
it would you sweetly waste the blank of night deep oblivion; or on Fancy's wings sit the paradise of happy dreams, ad waken cheerful as the lively morn; ppress not nature sinking down to rest ith feasts too late, too solid, or too full: it be the first concoction half-matur'd re you to mighty indolence resign our passive faculties. He from the toils nd troubles of the day to heavier toil etires, whom trembling from the tower that rocks mid the clouds, or Calpe's hideous height, he busy demons hurl; or in the main 'erwhelm; or bury struggling under ground. ot all a monarch's luxury the woes
an counterpoise of that most wretched man, Those nights are shaken with the frantic fits Of wild Orestes; whose delirious brain, tung by the furies, works with poison'd thought; While pale and monstrous painting shocks the soul; nd mangled consciousness bemoans itself For ever torn; and chaos floating round.
What dreams presage, what dangers these or those 'ortend to sanity, though prudent seers Reveal'd of old, and men of deathless fame, We would not to the superstitious mind uggest new throbs, new vanities of fear. Tis ours to teach you from the peaceful night To banish omens and all restless woes.
In study some protract the silent hours, Which others consecrate to mirth and wine; And sleep till noon, and hardly live till night. But surely this redeems not from the shades One hour of life. Nor does it nought avail What season you to drowsy Morpheus give Of th' ever-varying circle of the day;
Or whether, through the tedious winter gloom, You tempt the midnight or the morning damps. The body, fresh and vigorous from repose, Defies the early fogs: but, by the toils Of wakeful day exhausted and unstrung, Weakly resists the night's unwholesome breath. The grand discharge, th' effusion of the skin, Slowly impair'd, the languid maladies Creep on, and through the sick'ning functions steal. As, when the chilling east invades the Spring, The delicate narcissus pines away In hectic languor, and a slow disease Taints all the family of flowers, condemn'd To cruel heav'ns. But why, already prone To fade, should beauty cherish its own bane?.
O shame! O pity! nipt with pale quadrille, And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies! By toil subdu'd, the warrior and the hind Sleep fast and deep: their active functions soon With generous streams the subtle tubes supply; And soon the tonic irritable nerves
Feel the fresh impulse and awake the soul. The sons of indolence with long repose Grow torpid; and, with slowest Lethe drunk, Feebly and ling'ringly return to life,
Blunt every sense and powerless every limb. Ye, prone to sleep (whom sleeping most annoys) On the hard mattress or elastic couch
Extend your limbs, and wean yourselves from sloth; Nor grudge the lean projector, of dry brain And springy nerves, the blandishments of down: Nor envy while the buried Bacchanal Exhales his surfeit in prolixer dreams.
He without riot, in the balmy feast
Of life, the wants of nature has supply'd, Who rises, cool, serene, and full of soul. But pliant nature more or less demands, As custom forms her; and all sudden change She hates of habit, even from bad to good. If faults in life, or new emergencies, From habits urge you by long time confirm'd, Slow may the change arrive, and stage by stage; Slow as the shadow o'er the dial moves, Slow as the stealing progress of the year.
Observe the circling year. How unperceiv'd Her seasons change! Behold! by slow degrees, Stern Winter tam'd into a ruder Spring; The ripen'd Spring a milder Summer's glows; The parting Summer sheds Pomona's store, And aged Autumn brews the winter storm. Slow as they come, these changes come not void Of mortal shocks: the cold and torrid reigns, The two great periods of the important year, Are in their first approaches seldom safe; Funeral Autumn all the sickly dread; And the black fates deform the lovely Spring. He well advis'd who taught our wiser sires Early to borrow Muscovy's warm spoils, Ere the first frost has touch'd the tender blade; And late resign them, though the wanton Spring Should deck her charms with all her sister's rays. For while the effluence of the skin maintains Its native measure, the pleuritic Spring Glides harmless by; and Autumn, sick to death With sallow quartans, no contagion breathes. I in prophetic numbers could unfold The omens of the year: what seasons teem With what diseases; what the humid South Prepares, and what the demon of the East: But you perhaps refuse the tedious song. Besides, whatever plagues in heat, or cold, Or drought, or moisture dwell, they hurt not you, Skill'd to correct the vices of the sky, And taught already how to each extreme To bend your life. But should the public bane Infect you; or some trespass of your own, Or flaw of nature, hint mortality; Soon as a not unpleasing horrour glides Along the spine, through all your torpid limbs; When first the head throbs, or the stomach feels A sickly load, a weary pain the loins;
Be Celsus call'd: the fates come rushing on; The rapid fates admit of no delay. While wilful you, and fatally secure, Expect to-morrow's more auspicious sun,
The growing pest, whose infancy was weak And easy vanquish'd, with triumphant sway For want of timely care, O'erpow'rs your life. Millions have died of medicable wounds. Ah! in what perils is vain life engag'd! What slight neglects, what trivial faults destroy The hardiest frame! of indolence, of toil, We die; of want, of superfluity:
The all-surrounding Heaven, the vital air,
Is big with death. And, though the putrid South Be shut; though no convulsive agony Shake, from the deep foundations of the world, Th' imprison'd plagues; a secret venom oft Corrupts the air, the water, and the land. What livid deaths has sad Byzantium seen! How oft has Cairo, with a mother's woe, Wept o'er her slaughter'd sons and lonely streets! Even Albion, girt with less malignant skies, Albion the poison of the gods has drank, And felt the sting of monsters all her own.
Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spent Their ancient rage, at Bosworth's purple field; While, for which tyrant England should receive, Her legions in incestuous murders mix'd,
And daily horrours; till the fates were drunk With kindred blood by kindred hands profus'd: Another plague of more gigantic arm Arose, a monster, never known before, Rear'd from Cocytus its portentous head. This rapid fury not, like other pests, Pursu'd a gradual course, but in a day Rush'd as a storm o'er half the astonish'd isle, And strew'd with sudden carcasses the land.
First, through the shoulders, or whatever part Was seiz'd the first, a fervid vapour sprung. With rash combustion thence, the quivering spark Shot to the heart, and kindled all within;
And soon the surface caught the spreading fires. Through all the yielded pores, the melted blood Gush'd out in smoky sweats; but nought assuag'd The torrid heat within, nor aught reliev'd With incessant toil, *The stomach's anguish.
Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain, They toss'd from side to side. In vain the stream Ran full and clear, they burnt and thirsted still. The restless arteries with rapid blood
Beat strong and frequent. Thick and pantingly The breath was fetch'd, and with huge lab'rings
At last a heavy pain oppress'd the head,
A wild delirium came; their weeping friends Were strangers now, and this no home of theirs. Harass'd with toil on toil, the sinking powers Lay prostrate and o'erthrown; a ponderous sleep Wrapt all the senses up: they slept and died.
In some a gentle horrour crept at first O'er all the limbs; the sluices of the skin Withheld their moisture, till by art provok'd The sweats o'erflow'd; but in a clammy tide : Now free and copious, now restrain'd and slow; Of tinctures various, as the temperature Had mix'd the blood; and rank with fetid steams: As if the pent-up humours by delay
Were grown more fell, more putrid, and malign. Here lay their hopes (though little hope remain'd) With full effusion of perpetual sweats
To drive the venom out. And here the fates Were kind, that long they linger'd not in pain; For who surviv'd the Sun's diurnal race Rose from the dreary gates of Hell redeem'd: Some the sixth hour oppress'd, and some the third.
Of many thousands, few untainted 'scap'd; Of those infected, fewer 'scap'd alive: Of those who liv'd, some felt a second blow: And whom the second spar'd, a third destroy'd Frantic with fear, they sought by flight to shrun The fierce contagion. O'er the mournful land Th' infected city pour'd her hurrying swarms: Rous'd by the flames that fir'd her seats around, Th' infected country rush'd into the town. Some, sad at home, and in the desert some, Abjur'd the fatal commerce of mankind: In vain where'er they fled, the fates pursu'd Others, with hopes more specious, cross'd the main, To seek protection in far distant skies; It seem'd the general ir, But none they found. From pole to pole, from Atlas to the east, Was then at enmity with English blood. For, but the race of England, all were safe In foreign climes; nor did this fury taste The foreign blood which England then contain Where should they fly? The circumambient Heave Involv'd them still; and every breeze was bane. Where find relief? The salutary art Was mute; and, startled at the new disease, In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave. To Heaven with suppliant rites they sent the pray'rs ;
Heav'n heard them not. Of every hope depris Fatigued with vain resources; and subdued With woes resistless and enfeebling fear; Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow. Nothing but lamentable sounds was heard, Nor aught was seen but ghastly views of death Infectious horrour ran from face to face, And pale despair. 'T was all the business then To tend the sick, and in their turns to die. In heaps they fell: and oft one bed, they say, The sick'ning, dying, and the dead contain d.
Ye guardian gods, on whom the fates depend [powes Of tottering Albion! ye eternal fires That lead through Heav'n the wandering year! That o'er th' encircling elements preside! May nothing worse than what this age has seen Arrive! Enough abroad, enough at home Has Albion bled. Here a distemper'd heaven Has thinn'd her cities, from those lofty cliffs That awe proud Gaul, to Thule's wintry reign; While in the west, beyond the Atlantic foam, Her bravest sons, keen for the fight, have dy'd The death of cowards and of common men: Sunk void of wounds, and fall'n without renowa But from these views the weeping Muses turn, And other themes invite my wandering song.
THE choice of aliment, the choice of air, The use of toil, and all external things, Already sung; it now remains to trace What good, what evil, from ourselves proceeds: And how the subtle principle within Inspires with health, or mines with strange decay The passive body. Ye poetic shades Who know the secrets of the world unseen, Assist my song! for, in a doubtful theme Engag'd, I wander through mysterious ways. There is, they say, (and I believe there is,) A spark within us of th' immortal fire,
That animates and inoulds the grosser frame; And when the body sinks, escapes to Heaven, Its native seat, and mixes with the gods. Meanwhile this heavenly particle pervades The mortal elements; in every nerve
It ta rills with pleasure, or grows mad with pain. And, in its secret conclave, as it feels The bo'v's woes and joys, this ruling power Wields as its will the dull material world, And is the ody's health or malady.
By its own toil the gross corporeal frame Fatigues, exten tates, or destroys itself. Nor less the labours of the mind corrode The solid fabric: fo by subtle parts And viewless atoms, secret Nature moves The mighty wheels of this stupendous world. By subtle fluids pour'd through subtle tubes The natural vital functions are perform'd. By these the stubborn aliments are tam'd; The toiling heart distributes life and strength; These the still-crumbling frame rebuild; and these Are lost in thinking, and dissolve in air.
But 't is not thought, (for still the soul's em- ploy'd,)
'Tis painful thinking that corrodes our clay. All day the vacant eye without fatigue
To lean for ever, cramps the vital parts, And robs the fine machinery of its play.
'T is the great art of life to manage well The restless mind. For ever on pursuit Of knowledge bent, it starves the grosser powers: Quite unemployed, against its own repose It turns its fatal edge, and sharper pangs Than what the body knows embitter life. Chiefly where solitude, sad nurse of care, To sickly musing gives the pensive mind, There madness enters; and the dim-ey'd fiend, Sour Melancholy, night and day provokes Her own eternal wound. The Sun grows pale; A mournful visionary light o'erspreads The cheerful face of Nature: Earth becomes A dreary desert, and Heaven frowns above. Then various shapes of curs'd illusion rise : Whate'er the wretched fears, creating fear Forms out of nothing, and with monsters teems Unknown in Hell. The prostrate soul beneath A load of huge imagination heaves;
And all the horrours that the murderer feels With anxious flutterings wake the guiltless breast. Such phantoms pride in solitary scenes, Or fear, or delicate self-love creates. From other cares absolv'd, the busy mind
Strays o'er the Heaven and Earth; but long intent Finds in yourself a theme to pore upon;
On microscopic arts, its vigour fails.
Just so the mind, with various thought amus'd, Nor aches itself, nor gives the body pain. But anxious study, discontent, and care, Love without hope, and hate without revenge, And fear, and jealousy, fatigue the soul, Engross the subtle ministers of life, And spoil the lab'ring functions of their share, Hence the lean gloom that melancholy wears; The lover's paleness; and the sallow hue Of envy, jealousy; the meagre stare Of sore revenge: the canker'd body hence Betrays each fretful motion of the mind.
The strong-built pedant, who both night and day Feeds on the coarsest fare the schools bestow, And crudely fattens at gross Burman's stall; O'erwhelm'd with phlegm lies in a dropsy drown'd, Or sinks in lethargy before his time. With useful studies you, and arts that please Employ your mind; amuse, but not fatigue. Peace to each drowsy metaphysic sage! And ever may all heavy systems rest! Yet some there are, even of elastic parts, Whom strong and obstinate ambition leads Through all the rugged roads of barren lore, And gives to relish what their generous taste Would else refuse. But may not thirst of fame, Nor love of knowledge, urge you to fatigue With constant drudgery the liberal soul. Toy with your books; and, as the various fits Of humour seize you, from philosophy To fable shift: from serious Antonine To Rabelais' ravings, and from prose to song. While reading pleases, but no longer, read; And read aloud resounding Homer's strain, And wield the thunder of Demosthenes. The chest so exercis'd improves its strength; And quick vibrations through the bowels drive The restless blood, which in unactive days Would loiter else through unelastic tubes. Deem it not trifling while I recommend What posture suits: to stand and sit by turns, As nature prompts, is best. But o'er your leaves
It finds you miserable, or makes you so. For while yourself you anxiously explore, Timorous self-love, with sick'ning fancy's aid, Presents the danger that you dread the most, And ever galls you in your tender part. Hence some for love, and some for jealousy, For grim religion some, and some for pride, Have lost their reason: some for fear of want, Want all their lives; and others every day For fear of dying suffer worse than death. Ah! from your bosoms banish if you can Those fatal guests; and first the demon Fear, That trembles at impossible events; Lest aged Atlas should resign his load, And Heaven's eternal battlements rush down. Is there an evil worse than fear itself? And what avails it that indulgent Heaven From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come, If we, ingenious to torment ourselves, Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own? Enjoy the present: nor with needless cares, [womb, Of what may spring from blind misfortune's Appal the surest hour that life bestows. Serene, and master of yourself, prepare For what may come; and leave the rest to Heaven. Oft from the body, by long ails mis-tun'd, These evils sprung, the most important health, That of the mind, destroy: and when the mind They first invade, the conscious body soon In sympathetic languishment declines. These chronic passions, while from real woes They rise, and yet without the body's fault Infest the soul, admit one only cure; Diversion, hurry, and a restless life. Vain are the consolations of the wise;
In vain your friends would reason down your pain. O ye, whose souls relentless love has tam'd To soft distress, or friends untimely fall'n! Court not the luxury of tender thought; Nor deem it impious to forget those pains That hurt the living, nought avail the dead. Go, soft enthusiast! quit the cypress groves, Nor to the rivulet's lonely moanings tuue
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