When once an interrupting Paufe is made,
That individual Being is decay'd.

We, who are dead and gone, fhall bear no part
In all the Pleasures, nor fhall feel the Smart,
Which to that other Mortal shall accrue,
Whom of our Matter Time fhall mould anew.
For backward if you look, on that long space
Of Ages paft, and view the changing Face
Of Matter, toft and variously combin'd
In fundry fhapes, 'tis eafy for the Mind
From thence t' infer, that Seeds of things have been
In the fame Order as they now are seen :
Which yet our dark remembrance cannot trace,
Because a pause of Life, a gaping space,
Has come betwixt, where memory lies dead,

And all the wandring Motions from the sense are fled. For whofoe'er fhall in Misfortunes live,

;

Muft Be, when those Misfortunes shall arrive
And fince the Man, who Is not, feels not woe,
(For death exempts him, and wards off the blow,
Which we, the living, only feel and bear)

What is there left for us in death to fear?
When once that paufe of Life has come between,
'Tis juft the fame as we had never been.
And therefore if a Man bemoan his Lot,
That after Death his mouldring Limbs shall rot,
Or flames, or jaws of Beafts-devour his Mafs,
Know, he's an unfincere, unthinking Afs.
A fecret Sting remains within his Mind;
The fool is to his own caft offals kind.
He boasts no fense can after Death remain ;
Yet makes himself a part of life again;
As if fome other He could feel the pain.

If, while he live, this Thought moleft his Head,
What Wolf or Vulture fhall devour me dead ?
He waftes his days in idle Grief, nor can
Diftinguish 'twixt the Body and the Man ;
But thinks himself can ftill himself survive ;
And, what when dead he feels not, feels alive.
Then he repines that he was born to die,
Nor knows in death there is no other He,
No living He remains his Grief to vent,
And o'er his fenfelefs Carcafe to lament.
If after death 'tis painful to be torn

By Birds and Beafts, then why not so to burn,
Or drench'd in floods of Honey to be foak'd,
Imbalm'd to be at once preserv'd and choak'd;
Or on an airy Mountain's top to lie,
Expos'd to cold and Heav'n's inclemency;
Or crowded in a Tomb to be opprest
With monumental Marble on thy Breaft ?
But to be fnatch'd from all thy houfhold Joys,
From thy chafte Wife, and thy dear prattling Boys,
Whofe little Arms about thy Legs are caft,

And climbing for a Kiss prevent their Mother's hafte,
Infpiring fecret Pleasure thro' thy Breast ;

Ah! these fhall be no more: Thy Friends oppreft
Thy Care and Courage now no more shall free :
Ah! Wretch, thou cry'ft, ah! miferable me !
One woful day fweeps Children, Friends, and Wife,
And all the brittle Bleffings of my Life!

Add one thing more, and all thou fay'st is true;
Thy want and wish of them is vanish'd too :
Which well confider'd were a quick Relief
To all thy vain imaginary Grief.

For thou fhalt fleep, and never wake again,
And, quitting Life, fhalt quit thy living pain.

But

But we thy Friends fhall all thofe Sorrows find,
Which in forgetful death thou leav'ft behind;

No time fhall dry our Tears, nor drive thee from our Mind.

The worst that can befal thee, measur'd right,

Is a found flumber, and a long good Night.

Yet thus the Fools, that would be thought the Wits,
Disturb their Mirth with melancholy fits:
When healths go round, and kindly brimmers flow,
'Till the fresh Garlands on their Foreheads glow,
They whine, and cry, let us make hafte to live,
Short are the joys that human Life can give.
Eternal Preachers, that corrupt the draught,
And pall the God, that never thinks, with thought;
Idiots with all that thought, to whom the worst
Of death, is want of drink, and endless thirst,
Or any fond defire as vain as thefe.

For, ev'n in fleep, the body wrapt in ease
Supinely lies, as in the peaceful Grave;
And, wanting nothing, nothing can it crave.
Were that found fleep eternal, it were death;
Yet the first Atoms then, the Seeds of breath,
Are moving near to fenfe; we do but shake
And rouze that sense, and straight we are awake.
Then death to us, and death's anxiety

Is less than nothing, if a lefs could be.
For then our Atoms, which in order lay,
Are scatter'd from their heap, and puff'd away,
And never can return into their place,

When once the paufe of Life has left an empty space.
And last, fuppofe great Nature's Voice fhould call
To thee, or me, or any of us all,

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,
Cramm'd to the Throat with Life, and rife and take thy
But if my Bleffings thou haft thrown away,

[reft?

If indigefted Joys pafs'd thro', and would not stay,
Why dost thou with 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,
I 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, couldft 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 stand convicted, and our Caufe

goes

ill.

But if a Wretch, a Man opprefs'd by Fate,
Should beg of Nature to prolong his Date,
She speaks aloud to him with more disdain,
Be ftill, thou Martyr Fool, thou covetous of Pain,
But if an old decrepit Sot lament;
What thou (fhe cries) who hast out-liv'd Content!
Doft thou complain, who hast enjoy'd my Store?
But this is fill th' effect of wishing more.
Unfatisfy'd with all that Nature brings ;
Loathing the present, liking absent things;
From hence it comes thy vain defires, at ftrife
Within themselves, have tantaliz'd thy Life,

And

And ghaftly Death appear'd before thy fight,
Ere thou haft gorg'd thy Soul and Senfes with delight.
Now leave thofe 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
Againft 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 must waste like thofe, and follow Nature's doom.
All things, like thee, have time to rife and rot;
And from each other's 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 past and gone,

Whofe Circles ended long ere thine begun,
Then tell me, Fool, what part in them thou haft?
Thus may'st thou judge the future by the past.
What horror feeft thou in that quiet State,
What Bugbear Dreams to fright thee after Fate ?
No Ghoft, no Goblins, that ftill paffage keep;
But all is there ferene, in that eternal Sleep.
For all the difmal Tales, that Poets tell,
Are verify'd on Earth, and not in Hell.
No Tantalus looks up with fearful Eye,

Ordreads th' impending Rock to crush him from on high:
But fear of Chance on Earth disturbs our easy 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 :

D 4

}

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