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Fools but too oft into the notion fall,
That Vice or Virtue there is none at all..
If white and black blend, soften, and unite
A thousand ways, is there no black or white ?
Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain ;
'Tis to mistake them costs the time and pain.

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As to be hated, needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. But where the extreme of Vice, was ne'er agreed: Ask where's the North ? at York 'tis on the Tweed; In Scotland, at the Orcades; and there, At Greenland, Zembla, or I know not where. No creature owns it in the First degrec, But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he; E’en those who dwell beneath its very zone, Or never feel the rage, or never own: What happier natures shrink at with affright, The hard inhabitant contends is right.

Virtuous and vicious every man must be, Few in the extreme, but all in the degree; The rogue and fool by fits are fair and wise; And e'en the best, by fits, what they despise. 'Tis but by parts we follow good or ill ; For, Vice or Virtue, Self directs it still; Each individual seeks a several goal; But Heaven's great view is One, and that the Whole.


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STATE. SCEPTIC! who'er thou art, who say'st the soul, That particle divine, which God's own breath Inspird into the mortal mass, shall rest Annihilate, till duration has unroll’d Her never-ending line: tell, if thou know'st, Why ev'ry nation, ev'ry clime, though all In laws, in rites, and manners disagree, With one consent expect another world, Where wickedness shall weep? Why Painim bards, Fabled Elysian plains, Tartarean lakes, Styx and Cocytus ? Tell why Hali's sons Have feign'd a paradise of mirth and love, Banquets and blooming nymphs ? Or rather, tell, Why on the brink of Orellana's stream, Where never science rear'd her sacred torch, The' untutor'd Indian dreams of happier worlds Behind the cloud-topt hill ? Why in each breast Is plac'd a friendly monitor, that prompts, Informs, directs, encourages, forbids ? Tell why on unknown evil grief attends ; Or joy on secret good ? Why conscience acts With tenfold force, when sickness, age, or pain, Stands tottering on the precipice of death ? Or why such horror gnaws the guilty soul Of dying sinners; while the good man sleeps Peaceful and calm, and with a smile expires ?

THE NEGRO Boy. An African Prince being asked, what he had given

for his Watch ? replied, What I will never give againI gave a fine Boy for it.”

When avarice enslaves the mind,

And selfish views alone bear sway;
Man turns a savage to his kind,
And blood and rapine mark his way:

Alas! for this poor simple toy,

I sold a blooming Negro Boy.
His father's hope, his mother's pride ;

Tho' black, yet comely to their view;
I tore him helpless from their side,
And gave him to a ruffian crew :

To fiends that Afric's coast annoy,

I sold the blooming Negro Boy.
From country, friends, and parents torn,

His tender limbs in chains confin'd,
I saw him o'er the billows borne,
And mark'd his agony of mind :

But still to gain this simple toy,

I gave away the Negro Boy. :
In isles that deck the western wave,

I doom'd the hopeless youth to dwell ;
A poor forlorn insulted slave,
À beast that Christians buy and sell :

And in their cruel tasks employ,

The much-enduring Negro Boy.
His wretched parents long shall mourn ;

Shall long explore the distant main,

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