To mufe in filence, or at least confine

Remarks that gall fo many, to the few
My partners in retreat. Difguft conceal'd
Is oft-times proof of wisdom, when the fault
Is obftinate, and cure beyond our reach.
Domestic happiness, thou only blifs

Of Paradife that has furviv'd the fall!

Though few now tafte thee unimpair'd and pure,
Or tanking, long enjoy thee, too infirm

Or too incautious to preferve thy fweets
Unmixt with drops of bitter, which negle&
Or temper sheds into thy chrystal cup

Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms
She fmiles, appearing, as in truth fhe is,
Heav'n-born, and destined to the skies again.
Thou art not known where pleasure is ador'd,
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist
And wand'ring eyes, still leaning on the arm
Of novelty, her fickle frail support ;

For thou art meek and constant, hating change,
And finding in the calm of truth-tried love
Joys that her stormy raptures never yield.
Forfaking thee, what fhipwreck have we made
Of honor, dignity, and fair renown;

Till proftitution elbows us afide

In all our crowded streets, and fenates feem

Conven'd for purposes of empire less,

Than to release th' adultress from her bond.
Th' adultrefs! what a theme for angry verse,
What provocation to th' indignant heart
That feels for injur'd love! but I disdain
The nauseous task to paint her as fhe is,
Cruel, abandon'd, glorying in her shame.
No. Let her pass, and chariotted along
In guilty splendor, shake the public ways;
The frequency of crimes has wash'd them white.
And verfe of mine fhall never brand the wretch,
Whom matrons now of character unfmirch'd,
And chafte themselves, are not asham'd to own.
Virtue and vice had bound'ries in old time,
Not to be pafs'd. And fhe that had renounc'd
Her fex's honor, was renounc'd herself

By all that priz'd it; not for prud'ry's fake,
But dignity's, refentful of the wrong.

'Twas hard perhaps on here and there a waif,
Defirous to return, and not receiv'd,

But was an wholesome rigor in the main,

And taught the unblemish'd to preferve with care That purity, whofe lofs was lofs of all.

Men too were nice in honor in those days,

And

And-judg'd offenders well. And he that sharp'd,

And pocketted a prize by fraud obtain'd,

Was mark'd and fhunn'd as odious. He that fold
His country, or was flack when the requir'd
His ev'ry nerve in action and at ftretch,
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 conftruction, and fo rich
In chriftian charity, a good-natur'd age !
That they are fafe, finners of either sex,
Tranfgrefs what laws they may. Well drefs'd,
well bred,

Well equipag'd, is ticket good enough.
To pafs us readily through ev'ry door.
Hypocrify, deteft her as we may,

(And no man's hatred ever wrong'd her yet)
May claim this merit ftill, that she admits.
The worth of what the mimics with fuch care,
And thus gives virtue indirect applause ;
But she has burnt her mafk, not needed here,
Where vice has fuch allowance, that her fhifts
And fpecious femblances have lost their use.

I was a stricken deer that left the herd
Long fince; with many an arrow deep infixt,

My

My panting fide was charg'd, when I withdrew
'To feek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by one who had himself
Been hurt by th' archers. In his fide he bore,
And in his hands and feet, the cruel fcars.
With gentle force foliciting the darts,

He drew them forth, and heal'd and bade me live.
Since then, with few affociates, in remote
And filent woods I wander, far from thofe
My former partners of the peopled scene;
With few affociates, 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 fee that all are wand'rers, gone aftray
Each in his own delufions; they are loft
In chace of fancy'd happinefs, ftill woo'd
And never won. Dream after dream enfues,
And ftill they dream that they shall still fucceed,
And still are disappointed; rings the world
With the vain ftir. I fum 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 fit as gay As if created only like the fly,

That

That fpreads his motley wings in th' eye of noon,
To fport their feason, and be seen no more.
The reft are fober dreamers, grave and wife,
And pregnant with discov'ries new and rare.
Some write a narrative of wars, and feats
Of heroes little known, and call the rant
An 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 womb.
They difentangle from the puzzled skein,.
In which obfcurity has wrapp'd them up,
The threads of politic and fhrewd defign,
That ran through all his purposes, and charge
His mind with meanings that he never had,
Or having, kept conceal'd. Some drill and bore
The folid earth, and from the strata there
Extract a register, by which we learn

That he who made it, and reveal'd its date.
To Mofes, was mistaken in its age..
Some more acute, and more industrious ftill,.
Contrive creation; travel naturè up

To the sharp peak of her sublimeft height,

And tell us whence the stars; why fome are fix'd,. And planetary fome; what gave them first