What doft thou mean, ungrateful Wretch, thou vain,
Thou mortal thing, thus idly to complain,
And figh and fob, that thou shalt be no more?
For if thy Life were pleasant heretofore;
If all the bounteous Bleffings I could give
Thou haft enjoy'd, if thou haft known to live,
And pleasure not leak'd thro' thee like a Sieve;
Why doft thou not give thanks as at a plenteous Feaft,
Cram'd to the Throat with Life, and rise and take
But if my Bleffings thou haft thrown away, [thy reft!
If indigefted Joys pafs'd thro' and would not stay,
Why doft thou wish for more to fquander still?
If Life be grown a load, a real Ill,
And I would all thy Cares and Labours end,
Lay down thy burden, Fool, and know thy Friend.
To please thee I have empty'd all my Store,
1 can invent, and can fupply no more;
But run the round again, the round I ran before.
Suppose thou art not broken yet with Years,
Yet ftill the felf-fame Scene of things appears,
And would be ever, couldst thou ever live;
For life is ftill but life, there's nothing new to give,
What can we plead against so just a Bill?
We ftand convicted, and our Caufe goes ill.
But if a Wretch, a Man oppreft by Fate,
Should beg of Nature to prolong his Date,
She fpeaks aloud to him with more disdain,
Be ftill thou Martyr Fool, thou covetous of Pain.
But if an old decrepit Sot lament;
What thou (the crys) who haft out-liv'd Content!
Doft thou complain, who hast enjoy'd my Store?
But this is ftill th' effect of wishing more!
Unfatisfy'd with all that Nature brings ;
Loathing the present, liking abfent things;
From hence it comes thy vain defires at ftrife
Within themselves, have tantaliz'd thy Life.
And ghaftly Death appear'd-before thy fight [light.
E'er thou hadst gorg'd thy Soul and Senfes with de-
Now leave those Joys, unfuiting to thy Age,
To a fresh Comer, and refign the Stage.
Is Nature to be blam'd if thus the chide?
No fure; for 'tis 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 loft; for Nature gives and takes:
New Matter must be found for things to come,
And these muft wafte like those, and follow Natures
All things, like thee, have time to rife and rot; [doom.
And from each others ruin are begot;
For life is not confin'd to him or thee;
'Tis giv'n to all for Ufe; to none for Property. Confider former Ages paft and gone,
Whofe Circles ended long e'er thine begun,
Then tell me Fool, what part in them thou haft?
Thus may'ft thou judge the future by the past.
What horrour feeft thou in that quiet State,
What Bugbear Dreams to fright thee after Fate ?
No Ghoft, no Goblins, that still paffage keep,
But all is there ferene, in that eternal Sleep.
For all the dismal Tales that Poets tell,
Are verify'd on Earth, and not in Hell.
No Tantalus looks up with fearful Eye,
Or dreads th' impending Rock to crush him from on
But fear of Chance on Earth disturbs our eafie hours:
Or vain imagin'd Wrath, of vain imagin'd Pow'rs.
No Tityus torn by Vultures lies in Hell;
Nor cou'd the Lobes of his rank Liver fwell
To that prodigious Mafs, for their eternal Meal.
Not tho' his monftrous Bulk had cover'd o'er
Nine fpreading Acres, or nine thousand more;
Not tho' the Globe of Earth had been the Gyants
floor.
Nor in eternal Torments could he lye ;
Nor could his Corps fufficient food supply.
But he's the Tityus, who by Love opprest,
Or Tyrant Paffion preying on his Breaft,
And ever anxious thoughts, is robb'd of rest.
The Sifyphus is he, whom noise and ftrife
Seduce from all the foft retreats of Life,
To vex the Government, difturb the Laws,
Drunk with the Fumes of popular applause,
He courts the giddy Croud to make him great,
And fweats and toils in vain, to mount the fovereign
For ftill to aim at pow'r, and ftill to fail,
Ever to ftrive, and never to prevail,
What is it, but in Reason's true account
To heave the Stone against the rifing Mount;
Which urg'd, and labour'd, and forc'd up with pain,
Recoils, and rouls impetuous down, and fmoaks a-
long the plain.
Then ftill to treat thy ever craving Mind
With ev'ry Bleffing, and of ev'ry kind,
Yet never fill thy rav'ning appetite,
Though Years and Seasons vary thy delight,
Yet nothing to be feen of all the ftore,
But ftill 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 Veffels, which the Liquor spill;
To Veffels 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,
They neither are, nor were, nor e'er can be.
But here on Earth the guilty have in view
The mighty Pains to mighty Mischiefs due :
Racks, Prisons, Poisons, the Tarpeian Rock,
Stripes, Hangmen, Pitch, and fuffocating Smoak,
And laft, and most, if these were caft behind,
Th' avenging horrour of a Confcious Mind,
Whofe deadly fear anticipates the blow,
And fees no end of Punishment and Woe:
But looks for more, at the last gasp of Breath:
This makes an Hell on Earth, and Life a Death.
Mean time, when thoughts of death disturb thy Head;
Confider, Ancus great and good is dead;
Ancus thy better far, was born to die,
And thou, doft thou bewail mortality?
So many Monarchs with their mighty State,
Who rul'd the World, were over-rul'd by Fate.
That haughty King, who lorded o'er the Main,
And whofe ftupendous Bridge did the wild Waves re-
ftrain,
(In vain they foam'd, in vain thy threatned wreck,
While his proud Legions march'd upon their back:)
Him, Death, a greater Monarch, overcame; [Name.
Nor fpar'd his Guards the more, for their immortal
The Roman Chief, the Carthaginian Dread,
Scipio, the Thunder-Bolt of War, is dead,
And like a common Slave, by fate in triumph led.
The Founders of invented Arts are loft;
And Wits who made Eternity their boaft :
Where now is Homer who poffeft the Throne?
Th' immortal Work remains, the mortal Author's
Democritus perceiving Age invade,
His Body weaken'd, and his Mind decay'd,
Obey'd the Summons with a chearful Face; [Race.
Made hafte to welcome Death, and met him halfthe
That stroke, ev'n Epicurus could not bar,
Though he in Wit furpass'd Mankind, as far
As does the midday Sun, the midnight Star.
And thou, doft thou disdaiu to yield thy Breath,
Whofe very life is little more than death?
More than one half by lazy fleep poffeft;
And when awake, thy Soul but nods at best, [Breaft.
Day-dreams and fickly thoughts revolving in thy
Eternal Troubles haunt thy anxious Mind,.
Whofe caufe and cure thou never hop'ft to find 3
But ftill uncertain, with thy felf at ftrife,
Thou wander'ft in the Labyrinth of Life.
O, if the foolish Race of Man, who find
A weight of cares ftill preffing on their Mind,
Could find as well the caufe of this unreft,
And all this burden lodg'd within the Breaft!
Sure they would change their Course; nor live as now,
Uncertain what to wifh or what to vow.
Uneafie both in Country and in Town,
They fearch a Place to lay their Burden down.
One restless in his Palace, walks abroad,
And vainly thinks to leave behind the load.
But ftraight returns; for he's as reftless there;
And finds there's no relief in open Air.
Another to his Villa would retire,
And fpurs as hard as if it were on fire ;
No fooner enter'd at his Country door,
But he begins to ftretch, and yawn, and fnore;
Or feeks the City which he left before.
Thus every Man o'er-works his weary will,
To fhun himself, and to shake off his Ill;
The shaking Fit returns, and hangs upon him ftill,
No profpect of Repofe, nor hope of Eafe;
The Wretch is ignorant of his Difeafe;
Which known would all his fruitlefs trouble fpare;
For he would know the World not worth his care:
Then would he fearch more deeply for the cause;
And ftudy Nature well, and Nature's Laws:
For in this moment lyes not the debate;
But on our future, fix'd, eternal State;
That never-changing State which all muft keep
Whom Death has doom'd to everlasting fleep.
Why are we then fo fond of mortal Life,
Befet with dangers and maintain'd with ftrife.
A Life which all our care can never fave;
One Fate attends us; and one common Grave.
Befides, we tread but a perpetual round,
We ne'er ftrike out; but beat the former ground, And the fame Maukish Joys in the fame track are found.
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