That feels for injur'd love! but I disdain
The nauseous task to paint her as she is.
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame,
No:-let her pass, and, charioted along
In guilty splendour, shake the public ways;
The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white,
And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch
Whom matrons now of character unsmirch'd
And chaste themselves, are not asham'd to own
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time,
Not to be pass'd: and she that had renounced
Her sex's honour, was renounc'd herself
By all that priz'd it; not for prud'ry's sake
But dignity's, resentful of the wrong.
'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif,
Desirous to return and not receiv'd:
But was a wholesome rigour in the main,
And taught th' unb.emish'd to preserve with care
That purity, whose .oss was loss of all.
Men too were nice in honour in those days,
And judg'd offenders well. Then he that
sharp'd,
And pocketed a prize by fraud obtain'd,
Was mark'd and shunn'd as odious. He that
His country, or was slack when she requir'd
His ev'ry nerve in action and at stretch,
Paid with the blood that he had basely spar'd
The price of his default. But now-yes, now
We are become so candid and so fair
So lib'ral in construction, and so rich
In christian charity (good natur'd age!)
That they are safe; sinners of either sex Transgress what laws they may. Well dress'd well bred,
Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough,
To pass as readily through ev'ry door.
Hypocrisy, detest her as we may,
(And no man's hatrid ever wrong'd her yet,)
May claim this merit still-that she admits
The worth of what she mimics, with such care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applause;
But she has burnt her mask, not needed here,
Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts
And specious semblances have lost their use.
I was a stricken deer, that left the herd
Long since. With many an arrow deep infix'd
My panting side was charg'd, when I withdrew
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by one who had himself
Been hurt by th' archers. In his side he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.
With gentle force soliciting the darts,
He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me
Since then, with few associates, in remote
And silent woods I wander, far from those
My former partners of the peopled scene;
With few associates, and not wishing more.
Here much I ruminate, as much I may,
With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come
I see that all are wand'rers, gone astray
Each in his own delusions; they are lost
In chase of fancied happiness, still woo'd
And never won. Dream after dream ensues;
And still they dream that they shall still succeed,
And still are disappointed. Rings the world
With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind
And add two thirds of the remaining half,
And find the total of their hopes and fears
Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as
As if created only like the fly,
That spreads his motly wings in th' eye of noon,
To sport their season, and be seen no more.
The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise,
And pregnant with discoveries new and rare.
Some write a narrative of wars, and feats
Of heroes little known; and call the ran⭑
A history: describe the man, of whom
His own coevals took but little note
And paint his person, character, and views,
As they had known him from his mother's
They disentangle from the puzzled skein,
In which obscurity has wrapp'd them up,
The threads of politic and shrewd design,
That ran through all his purposes, and charge
His mind with meanings that he never had,
Or, having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and
The solid earth, and from the strata there
Extract a register, by which we learn,
That he who made it and reveal'd its dato
To Moses, was mistaken in its age.
Some, more acute, and more industrious still,
Contrive creation; travel nature up
To the sharp peak of her sublimist height,
And tell us whence the stars: why some are
fix'd,
And planetary some; what gave them first
Rotation, from what fountain flow'd their light.
Great contest follows, and much learned dust,
Involves the combatants; each claiming truth,
And truth disclaiming both. And thus they
spend
The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp
In playing tricks with nature, giving laws
To distant worlds, and trifling in their own.
Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums
Should ever tease the lungs, and blear the sight
Of oracles like these? Great pity, too,
That having wielded th' elements, and built
A thousand systems, each in his own way,
They should go out in fume, and be forgot.
Ah! what is life thus spent? and what are they
But frantic, who thus spend it? all for smoke-
Eternity for bubbles, proves at last
A senseless bargain. When I see such games
Play'd by the creatures of a pow'r who swears
That he will judge the Earth, and call the fool
To a sharp reck'ning, that has liv'd in vain;
And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well.
And prove it in th' infallible result
So hollow and so false-I feel my heart
Dissolve in pity, and account the learn'd,
If this be learning, most of all deceiv'd.
Great crimes alarm the conscience, but it sleeps While thoughtful man is plausibly amused. Defend me, therefo, e, common sense, say I, From reveries so airy, from the toil
Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up! 'Twere well, says one, sage, erudite, pro found,
Terribly arch'd and aquiline his nose,
And overbuilt with most impending brows, 'Twere well, could you permit the World to
As the World pleases: what's the World to
Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk As sweet as charity from human breasts.
I think, articulate-I laugh and weep,
And exercise all functions of a man.
How then should I and any man that lives
Be strangers to each other? Pierce my vein,
Take of the crimson stream meand'ring there,
And catechise it well: apply thy glass,
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood
Congenial with thine own: and, if it be,
What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose
Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art,
To cut the link of brotherhood, by which
One common Maker bound me to the kind?
True; I am no proficient, I confess,
In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift
And perilous lightnings from the angry clouds,
And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath;
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