TO
Mr.
C.
and
S.
Fleetwood
.
The
World
Vain
AND
The
Soul
Immortal
.
1701.
I.
FLEETWOODS
,
Young
Generous
Pair
,
Despise
the
Joys
that
Fools
pursue
;
Bubbles
are
light
and
brittle
too
,
Born
of
the
Water
and
the
Air
.
Try'd
by
a
Standard
Bold
and
Just
Honour
and
Gold
are
Paint
and
Dust
;
How
vile
the
last
is
,
and
as
vain
the
first
:
Things
that
the
Crowd
calls
Great
and
Brave
,
With
me
how
low
their
Value's
brought
!
Titles
,
and
Names
,
and
Life
,
and
Breath
,
Slaves
to
the
Wind
and
born
for
Death
;
The
Soul's
the
only
Thing
We
have
Worth
an
Important
Thought
.
II
.
The
Soul
!
'tis
of
th'
Immortal
Kind
,
Not
form'd
of
Fire
,
or
Earth
,
or
Wind
,
Outlives
the
mouldring
Corps
,
and
leaves
the
Globe
behind
.
In
Limbs
of
Clay
tho'
She
appears
,
Drest
up
in
Ears
and
Eyes
,
The
Flesh
is
but
the
Souls
Disguise
,
There's
nothing
in
her
Frame
kin
to
the
Rags
she
Wears
.
From
all
the
Laws
of
Matter
free
,
From
all
we
feel
,
and
all
we
see
She
stands
Eternally
distinct
,
and
must
for
ever
Be
.
III
.
Rise
then
,
my
Thoughts
,
on
high
,
Soar
beyond
all
that's
made
to
Dye
;
Lo
!
on
an
Awful
Throne
Sits
the
Creatour
and
the
Judge
of
Souls
,
Whirling
the
Planets
round
the
Poles
,
Winds
off
our
Threads
of
Life
,
and
brings
our
Pe
riods
on
.
Swift
the
Approach
,
and
Solemn
is
the
Day
,
When
this
Immortal
Mind
Strip't
of
the
Body's
coarse
Array
To
Endless
Pain
,
or
Endless
Joy
Must
be
at
once
consign'd
.
IV
.
Think
of
the
Sands
run
down
to
waste
,
We
possess
none
of
all
the
Past
,
None
but
the
Present
is
our
own
;
Grace
is
not
plac'd
within
our
Power
,
'Tis
but
one
short
,
one
shining
Hour
,
Bright
and
declining
as
a
Setting
Sun
.
See
the
white
Minutes
wing'd
with
hast
;
The
NOW
that
flies
may
be
the
last
,
Seize
the
Salvation
e're
'tis
past
,
Nor
mourn
the
Blessing
gone
:
A
Thoughts
Delay
is
Ruine
here
,
A
Closing
Eye
,
a
Gasping
Breath
Shuts
up
the
Golden
Scene
in
Death
,
And
drowns
you
in
Despair
.