[
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
you
light
?
Is
their
esteem
alone
not
worth
your
care
?
Accept
my
simple
scheme
of
common
sense
:
Thus
save
your
fame
,
and
make
two
worlds
your
own
.
The
World
replies
not
;
—
but
the
World
persists
;
And
puts
the
cause
off
to
the
longest
day
,
Planning
evasions
for
the
day
of
doom
:
So
far
,
at
that
re-hearing
,
from
redress
,
They
then
turn
witnesses
against
themselves
.
Hear
that
,
Lorenzo
!
nor
be
wise
to-morrow
.
Haste
,
haste
!
a
man
,
by
nature
,
is
in
haste
:
For
who
shall
answer
for
another
hour
?
'T
is
highly
prudent
to
make
one
sure
friend
;
And
that
thou
canst
not
do
this
side
the
skies
.
Ye
sons
of
earth
!
(
nor
willing
to
be
more
!
)
Since
verse
you
think
from
priestcraft
somewhat
free
,
Thus
,
in
an
age
so
gay
,
the
Muse
plain
truths
(
Truths
which
,
at
church
,
you
might
have
heard
in
prose
)
Has
ventured
into
light
;
well-pleased
the
verse
Should
be
forgot
,
if
you
the
truths
retain
,
And
crown
her
with
your
welfare
,
not
your
praise
.
But
praise
she
need
not
fear
:
I
see
my
fate
,
And
headlong
leap
,
like
Curtius
,
down
the
gulf
.
Since
many
an
ample
volume
,
mighty
tome
,
Must
die
,
and
die
unwept
;
O
thou
minute
,
Devoted
page
!
go
forth
among
thy
foes
;
Go
,
nobly
proud
of
martyrdom
for
truth
,
And
die
a
double
death
.
Mankind
,
incensed
,
Denies
thee
long
to
live
:
nor
shalt
thou
rest
When
thou
art
dead
;
in
Stygian
shades
arraign'd
By
Lucifer
,
as
traitor
to
his
throne
,
And
bold
blasphemer
of
his
friend
,
—
the
World
;
The
World
,
whose
legions
cost
him
slender
pay
,
And
,
volunteers
,
around
his
banner
swarm
;
Prudent
as
Prussia
in
her
zeal
for
Gaul
.
"
Are
all
,
then
,
fools
?
"
Lorenzo
cries
.
—
Yes
,
all
,
But
such
as
hold
this
doctrine
(
new
to
thee
)
:
"
The
mother
of
true
Wisdom
is
the
Will
;
"
The
noblest
intellect
a
fool
without
it
.
World-wisdom
much
has
done
,
and
more
may
do
,
In
arts
and
sciences
,
in
wars
and
peace
;
But
art
and
science
,
like
thy
wealth
,
will
leave
thee
,
And
make
thee
twice
a
beggar
at
thy
death
.
This
is
the
most
Indulgence
can
afford
:
—
"
Thy
wisdom
all
can
do
but
—
make
thee
wise
.
"
Nor
think
this
censure
is
severe
on
thee
;
Satan
,
thy
master
,
I
dare
call
a
dunce
.