But if he play the glutton and exceed,
His benefactress blushes at the deed.
For nature, nice, as lib'ral to dispense,
Made nothing but a brute the flave of fenfe.
Daniel ate pulfe by choice, example rare!
Heav'n bless'd the youth, and made him fresh and
Gorgonius fits abdominous and wan,
Like a fat fquab upon a Chinese fan.
He fnuffs far off th' anticipated joy,
Turtle and ven'fon all his thoughts employ,
Prepares for meals, as jockeys take a sweat,
Oh nauseous! an emetic for a whet-
Will providence o'erlook the wafted good?
Temperance were no virtue if he cou'd.
That pleasures, therefore, or what such we call, Are hurtful, is a truth confefs'd by all.
And fome that feem to threaten virtue less,
Still hurtful, in th' abufe, or by th' excefs.
Is man then only for his torment plac'd,
The center of delights he may not taste ?
Like fabled Tantalus condemn'd to hear
The precious stream ftill purling in his ear,
Lip-deep in what he longs for, and yet curst
With prohibition and perpetual thirst?
No, wrangler-deftitute of shame and sense,
The precept that injoins him abftinence,
Forbids him none but the licentious joy,
Whofe fruit, though fair, tempts only to deftroy.
Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid.
In every bofom where her neft is made,
Hatch'd by the beams of truth denies him reft,
And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.
No pleasure? Are domeftic comforts dead?
Are all the nameless fweets of friendship fled?
Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame.
Good fenfe, good health, good confcience, and
good fame?
All these belong to virtue, and all prove
That virtue has a title to your love.
Have you no touch of pity, that the poor
Stand ftarved at your inhofpitable door?
Or if yourself too fcantily fupplied
Need help, let honeft industry provide.
Earn, if you want, if you abound, impart,
These both are pleasures to the feeling heart.
No pleafure? Has fome fickly eastern waste
Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast?
Can British paradise no scenes afford
To please her fated and indiff'rent lord ?
Are sweet philofophy's enjoyments run
Quite to the lees? And has religion none?
Brutes capable, fhould tell you 'tis a lye,
And judge you from the kennel and the fty.
Delights like thefe, ye fenfual and profane,
Ye are bid, begg'd, befought to entertain ;
Call'd to these cryftal ftreams, do ye turn off
Obscene, to fwill and swallow at a trough?
Envy the beast then, on whom heav'n bestows
Your pleasures, with no curfes in the close.
Pleasure admitted in undue degree,
Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
'Tis not alone the grapes enticing juice,
Unnerves the moral pow'rs, and marrs their use,
Ambition, av'rice, and the luft of fame,
And woman, lovely woman, does the fame.
The heart, furrender'd to the ruling pow'r
Of fome ungovern'd paffion ev'ry hour,
Finds by degrees, the truths that once bore sway,
And all their deep impreffion wear away.
So coin grows fmooth, in traffic current pass'd,
'Till Cæfar's image is effac'd at last.
The breach, though small at first, foon op'ning
In rushes folly with a full moon tide.
Then welcome errors of whatever fize,
To justify it by a thousand lies.
As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone,
And hides the ruin that it feeds upon,
So fophiftry, cleaves close to, and protects.
Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects.
Mortals whofe pleasures are their only care,
First wish to be impos'd on, and then are.
And left the fulfome artifice fhould fail,
Themselves will hide its coarfeness with a veil,
Not more industrious are the juft and true
To give to virtue what is virtue's due,
The praife of wisdom, comeliness and worth,
And call her charms to public notice forth,
Than vice's mean and difingenuous race,
To hide the shocking features of her face.
Her form with drefs and lotion they repair,
Then kifs their idol and pronounce her fair.
The facred implement I now employ
Might prove a mischief or at best a toy,
A trifle if it move but to amufe,
But if to wrong the judgment and abuse,
Worfe than a poignard in the baseft hand,
It ftabs at once the morals of a land.
Ye writers of what none with fafety reads,
Footing it in the dance that fancy leads,
Ye novellifts who marr what ye would mend,
Sniv'ling and driv'ling folly without end,
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