But this is still th' effect of wishing more. Unsatisfied with all that Nature brings; Loathing the present, liking absent things; From hence it comes, thy vain desires, at strife

Within themselves, have tantaliz'd thy | life;

And ghastly death appear'd before thy sight,

Ere thou hadst gorg'd thy soul and senses with delight.

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Now leave those joys, unsuiting to thy age, To a fresh comer, and resign the stage."

Is Nature to be blam'd if thus she chide? No, sure; for 't is her business to provide, Against this ever-changing frame's decay, New things to come, and old to pass away. One being, worn, another being makes; Chang'd, but not lost; for Nature gives and takes:

New matter must be found for things to come,

And these must waste like those, and follow Nature's doom.

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All things, like thee, have time to rise and rot;

And from each other's ruin are begot: For life is not confin'd to him or thee; 'Tis given to all for use, to none for property.

Consider former ages past and gone, Whose circles ended long ere thine begun, Then tell me, fool, what part in them thou hast.

Thus may'st thou judge the future by the past.

What horror see'st thou in that quiet state? What bugbear dreams to fright thee after fate?

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The Sisyphus is he, whom noise and strife Seduce from all the soft retreats of life, 201 To vex the government, disturb the laws: Drunk with the fumes of popular applause, He courts the giddy crowd to make him great,

And sweats and toils in vain, to mount the sovereign seat.

For still to aim at pow'r, and still to fail,
Ever to strive, and never to prevail,
What is it, but, in reason's true account,
To heave the stone against the rising
mount?

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Which urg'd, and labor'd, and forc'd up
with pain,
Recoils, and rolls impetuous down, and
smokes along the plain.

Then still to treat thy ever-craving mind
With ev'ry blessing, and of ev'ry kind,
Yet never fill thy rav'ning appetite;
Tho' years and seasons vary thy delight,
Yet nothing to be seen of all the store,
But still the wolf within thee barks for
more;

This is the fable's moral, which they tell
Of fifty foolish virgins damn'd in hell
To leaky vessels, which the liquor spill; 220
To vessels of their sex, which none could

ever fill.

As for the Dog, the Furies, and their snakes,

The gloomy caverns, and the burning lakes, And all the vain infernal trumpery,

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But still uncertain, with thyself at strife,
Thou wander'st in the labyrinth of life.
O, if the foolish race of man, who find
A weight of cares still pressing on their
mind,

Could find as well the cause of this unrest,
And all this burden lodg'd within the breast;
Sure they would change their course, nor
live as now,

Uncertain what to wish or what to vow.
Uneasy both in country and in town,
They search a place to lay their burden
down.

One, restless in his palace, walks abroad, And vainly thinks to leave behind the load;

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But straight returns, for he's as restless there,

And finds there's no relief in open air.
Another to his villa would retire,

And spurs as hard as if it were on fire;
No sooner enter'd at his country door,
But he begins to stretch, and yawn, and

Why are we then so fond of mortal life, Beset with dangers, and maintain'd with strife?

A life which all our care can never save; One fate attends us, and one common grave. Besides, we tread but a perpetual round; We ne'er strike out, but beat the former ground,

And the same mawkish joys in the same track are found.

For still we think an absent blessing best,

Which cloys, and is no blessing when possess'd;

A new arising wish expels it from the breast.

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For fierce desire does all his mind employ,
And ardent love assures approaching joy.
Such is the nature of that pleasing smart,
Whose burning drops distil upon the heart,
The fever of the soul shot from the fair,
And the cold ague of succeeding care.
If absent, her idea still appears,

And her sweet name is chiming in your

ears.

But strive those pleasing phantoms to re

move,

And shun th' aërial images of love,

That feed the flame: when one molests thy mind,

Discharge thy loins on all the leaky kind; For that's a wiser way than to restrain Within thy swelling nerves that hoard of

pain.

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For every hour some deadlier symptom shows,

And by delay the gath'ring venom grows,
When kindly applications are not us'd;
The viper, love, must on the wound be
bruis'd.

On that one object 't is not safe to stay, But force the tide of thought some other way;

The squander'd spirits prodigally throw, And in the common glebe of nature sow. 30 Nor wants he all the bliss that lovers feign, Who takes the pleasure, and avoids the pain;

For purer joys in purer health abound, And less affect the sickly than the sound.

When love its utmost vigor does imploy, Ev'n then 't is but a restless wand'ring joy; Nor knows the lover in that wild excess, With hands or eyes, what first he would possess;

But strains at all, and, fast'ning where he strains,

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Too closely presses with his frantic pains; With biting kisses hurts the twining fair, Which shews his joys imperfect, unsincere: For, stung with inward rage, he flings around,

And strives t' avenge the smart on that

which gave the wound.

But love those eager bitings does restrain, And mingling pleasure mollifies the pain. For ardent hope still flatters anxious grief, And sends him to his foe to seek relief: Which yet the nature of the thing denies; For love, and love alone of all our joys, 50 By full possession does but fan the fire;