BOOK IV.The PASSIONS.

The choice of aliment, the choice of air,The use of toil and all external things,Already sung; it now remains to traceWhat good what evil from ourselves proceeds:And how the subtle principle within5Inspires with health, or mines with strange decayThe passive body. Ye poetic Shades,That know the secrets of the world unseen,Assist my song! For, in a doubtful themeEngag’d, I wander thro’ mysterious ways.10There is, they say, (and I believe there is)A spark within us of th’ immortal fire,That animates and moulds the grosser frame;And when the body sinks, escapes to heaven,Its native seat; and mixes with the Gods.15Mean while this heavenly particle pervadesThe mortal elements, in every nerveIt thrills with pleasure, or grows mad with pain.And, in its secret conclave, as it feelsThe body’s woes and joys, this ruling power20Weilds at its will the dull material world,And is the body’s health or malady.By its own toil the gross corporeal frameFatigues, extenuates, or destroys itself:Nor less the labours of the mind corrode25The solid fabric. For by subtle parts,And viewless atoms, secret Nature movesThe mighty wheels of this stupendous world.By subtle fluids pour’d thro’ subtle tubesThe natural, vital, functions are perform’d.30By these the stubborn aliments are tam’d;The toiling heart distributes life and strength;These the still-crumbling frame rebuild; and theseAre lost in thinking, and dissolve in air.But ’tis not Thought (for still the soul’s employ’d)35’Tis painful thinking that corrodes our clay.All day the vacant eye without fatigueStrays o’er the heaven and earth; but long intentOn microscopic arts its vigour fails.Just so the mind, with various thought amus’d,40Nor aches itself, nor gives the body pain.But anxious Study, Discontent, and Care,Love without hope, and Hate without revenge,And Fear, and Jealousy, fatigue the soul,Engross the subtle ministers of life,45And spoil the lab’ring functions of their share.Hence the lean gloom that Melancholy wears;The Lover’s paleness; and the sallow hueOf Envy, Jealousy; the meagre stareOf sore Revenge: The canker’d body hence50Betrays each fretful motion of the mind.The strong-built pedant; who both night and dayFeeds on the coarsest fare the schools bestow,And crudely fattens at gross Burman’s stall;O’erwhelm’d with phlegm lies in a dropsy drown’d,55Or sinks in lethargy before his time.With useful studies you, and arts that pleaseEmploy your mind, amuse but not fatigue.Peace to each drowsy metaphysic sage!And ever may the German folio’s rest!60Yet some there are, even of elastic parts,Whom strong and obstinate ambition leadsThro’ all the rugged roads of barren lore,And gives to relish what their generous tasteWould else refuse. But may nor thirst of fame65Nor love of knowledge urge you to fatigueWith constant drudgery the liberal soul.Toy with your books: and, as the various fitsOf humour seize you, from PhilosophyTo Fable shift; from serious Antonine70To Rabelais’ ravings, and from prose to song.While reading pleases, but no longer, read;And read aloud resounding Homer’s strain,And weild the thunder of Demosthenes.The chest so exercis’d improves its strength;75And quick vibrations thro’ the bowels driveThe restless blood, which in unactive daysWould loiter else thro’ unelastic tubes.Deem it not trifling while I recommendWhat posture suits: To stand and sit by turns,80As nature prompts, is best. But o’er your leavesTo lean for ever, cramps the vital parts,And robs the fine machinery of its play.’Tis the great art of life to manage wellThe restless mind. For ever on pursuit85Of knowledge bent it starves the grosser powers.Quite unemploy’d, against its own reposeIts turns its fatal edge, and sharper pangsThan what the body knows embitter life.Chiefly where Solitude, sad nurse of care,90To sickly musing gives the pensive mind.There madness enters; and the dim-ey’d Fiend,Sour Melancholy, night and day provokesHer own eternal wound. The sun grows pale;A mournful visionary light o’erspreads95The chearful face of nature: earth becomesA dreary desart, and heaven frowns above.Then various shapes of curs’d illusion rise;Whate’er the wretched fears, creating FearForms out of nothing; and with monsters teems100Unknown in hell. The prostrate soul beneathA load of huge imagination heaves.And all the horrors, that the guilty feel,With anxious flutterings wake the guiltless breast.Such phantoms Pride in solitary scenes,105Or Fear, on delicate Self-love creates.From other cares absolv’d, the busy mindFinds in yourself a theme to pore upon;It finds you miserable, or makes you so.For while yourself you anxiously explore,110Timorous Self-love, with sick’ning Fancy’s aid,Presents the danger that you dread the most,And ever galls you in your tender part.Hence some for love, and some for jealousy,For grim religion some, and some for pride,115Have lost their reason: some for fear of wantWant all their lives; and others every dayFor fear of dying suffer worse than death.Ah! from your bosoms banish, if you can,Those fatal guests: and first the Demon Fear;120That trembles at impossible events,Lest aged Atlas should resign his loadAnd heaven’s eternal battlements rush down.Is there an evil worse than fear itself?And what avails it that indulgent heaven125From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come,If we, ingenious to torment ourselves,Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own?Enjoy the present; nor with needless cares,Of what may spring from blind Misfortune’s womb,130Appal the surest hour that life bestows.Serene, and master of yourself, prepareFor what may come; and leave the rest to heaven.Oft from the body, by long ails mistun’d,These evils sprung the most important health,135That of the mind, destroy: And when the mindThey first invade, the conscious body soonIn sympathetic languishment declines.These chronic passions, while from real woesThey rise, and yet without the body’s fault140Infest the soul, admit one only cure;Diversion, hurry, and a restless life.Vain are the consolations of the wise,In vain your friends would reason down your pain.Oh ye whose souls relentless love has tam’d145To soft distress, or friends untimely slain!Court not the luxury of tender thought:Nor deem it impious to forget those painsThat hurt the living, nought avail the dead.Go, soft enthusiast! quit the cypress groves,150Nor to the rivulet’s lonely moanings tuneYour sad complaint. Go, seek the chearful hauntsOf men, and mingle with the bustling croud;Lay schemes for wealth, or power, or fame, the wishOf nobler minds, and push them night and day.155Or join the caravan in quest of scenesNew to your eyes, and shifting every hour;Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines.Or, more advent’rous, rush into the fieldWhere war grows hot; and, raging thro’ the sky,160The lofty trumpet swells the maddening soul:And in the hardy camp and toilsome marchForget all softer and less manly cares.But most too passive, when the blood runs low,Too weakly indolent to strive with pain,165And bravely by resisting conquer Fate,Try Circe’s arts; and in the tempting bowlOf poison’d Nectar sweet oblivion drink.Struck by the powerful charm, the gloom dissolvesIn empty air; Elysium opens round.170A pleasing phrenzy buoys the lighten’d soul,And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care;And what was difficult, and what was dire,Yields to your prowess and superior stars:The happiest you, of all that e’er were mad,175Or are, or shall be, could this folly last.But soon your heaven is gone; a heavier gloomShuts o’er your head: and, as the thundering stream,Swoln o’er its banks with sudden mountain rain,Sinks from its tumult to a silent brook;180So, when the frantic raptures in your breastSubside, you languish into mortal man;You sleep, and waking find yourself undone.For prodigal of life in one rash nightYou lavish’d more than might support three days.185A heavy morning comes; your cares returnWith tenfold rage. An anxious stomach wellMay be endur’d; so may the throbbing head:But such a dim delirium, such a dream,Involves you; such a dastardly despair190Unmans your soul, as madd’ning Pentheus feltWhen, baited round Citheron’s cruel sides,He saw two suns, and double Thebes ascend.You curse the sluggish Port; you curse the wretch,The felon, with unnatural mixture first195Who dar’d to violate the virgin Wine.Or on the fugitive Champain you pourA thousand curses; for to heav’n your soulIt rapt, to plunge you deeper in despair.Perhaps you rue even that divinest gift,200The gay, serene, good-natur’d Burgundy,Or the fresh fragrant vintage of the Rhine:And with that heaven from mortals had withheldThe grape, and all intoxicating bowls.Besides, it wounds you sore to recollect205What follies in your loose unguarded hourEscap’d. By one irrevocable word,Perhaps that meant no harm, you lose a friend.Or in the rage of wine your hasty handPerforms a deed to haunt you to your grave.210Add that your means, your health, your parts decay;Your friends avoid you; brutishly transform’dThey hardly know you; or if one remainsTo wish you well, he wishes you in heaven.Despis’d, unwept you fall; who might have left215A sacred, cherish’d, sadly-pleasing name;A name still to be utter’d with a sigh.Your last ungraceful scene has quite effac’dAll sense and memory of your former worth.How to live happiest; how avoid the pains,220The disappointments, and disgusts of thoseWho would in pleasure all their hours employ;The precepts here of a divine old manI could recite. Tho’ old, he still retain’dHis manly sense, and energy of mind.225Virtuous and wise he was, but not severe;He still remember’d that he once was young;His easy presence check’d no decent joy.Him even the dissolute admir’d; for heA graceful looseness when he pleas’d put on,230And laughing cou’d instruct. Much had he read,Much more had seen; he studied from the life,And in th’ original perus’d mankind.Vers’d in the woes and vanities of life,He pitied man: And much he pitied those235Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs’d with meansTo dissipate their days in quest of joy.Our aim is Happiness; ’tis yours, ’tis mine,He said, ’tis the pursuit of all that live;Yet few attain it, if ’twas e’er attain’d.240But they the widest wander from the mark,Who thro’ the flow’ry paths of saunt’ring JoySeek this coy Goddess; that from stage to stageInvites us still, but shifts as we pursue.For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings245To counterpoise itself, relentless FateForbids that we thro’ gay voluptuous wildsShould ever roam: And were the Fates more kindOur narrow luxuries would soon be stale.Were these exhaustless, Nature would grow sick,250And, cloy’d with pleasure, squeamishly complainThat all was vanity, and life a dream.Let nature rest: Be busy for yourself,And for your friend; be busy even in vainRather than teize her sated appetites.255Who never fasts no banquet e’er enjoys;Who never toils or watches never sleeps.Let nature rest: And when the taste of joyGrows keen, indulge; but shun satiety.’Tis not for mortals always to be blest.260But him the least the dull or painful hoursOf life oppress, whom sober Sense conductsAnd Virtue, thro’ this labyrinth we tread.Virtue and Sense I mean not to disjoin;Virtue and Sense are one; and, trust me, he265Who has not virtue is not truly wise.Virtue (for meer good-nature is a fool)Is sense and spirit, with humanity:’Tis sometimes angry, and its frown confounds;’Tis even vindictive, but in vengeance just.270Knaves fain would laugh at it; some great ones dare;But at his heart the most undaunted sonOf fortune dreads its name and awful charms.To noblest uses this determines wealth;This is the solid pomp of prosperous days;275The peace and shelter of adversity.And if you pant for glory, build your fameOn this foundation, which the secret shockDefies of Envy and all-sapping Time.The gawdy gloss of Fortune only strikes280The vulgar eye: The suffrage of the wise,The praise that’s worth ambition, is attain’dBy Sense alone, and dignity of mind.Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul,Is the best gift of heaven: a happiness285That even above the smiles and frowns of fateExalts great Nature’s favourites: a wealthThat ne’er encumbers, nor to baser handsCan be transfer’d: it is the only goodMan justly boasts of, or can call his own.290Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn’d;Or dealt by chance, to shield a lucky knave,Or throw a cruel sun-shine on a fool.But for one end, one much-neglected use,Are riches worth your care: (for Nature’s wants295Are few, and without opulence supplied.)This noble end is, to produce the Soul;To shew the virtues in their fairest light;To make Humanity the MinisterOf bounteous Providence; and teach the Breast300That generous luxury the Gods enjoy.Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly SageSometimes declaim’d. Of Right and Wrong he taughtTruths as resin’d as ever Athens heard;And (strange to tell!) he practis’d what he preach’d.305Skill’d in the Passions, how to check their swayHe knew, as far as Reason can controulThe lawless Powers. But other cares are mine:Form’d in the school of Pæon, I relateWhat Passions hurt the body, what improve:310Avoid them, or invite them, as you may.Know then, whatever chearful and sereneSupports the mind, supports the body too.Hence the most vital movement mortals feelIs Hope; the balm and life-blood of the soul.315It pleases, and it lasts. Indulgent heavenSent down the kind delusion, thro’ the pathsOf rugged life; to lead us patient on;And make our happiest state no tedious thing.Our greatest good, and what we least can spare.320Is Hope; the last of all our evils, Fear.But there are Passions grateful to the breast,And yet no friends to Life; perhaps they pleaseOr to excess, and dissipate the soul;Or while they please, torment. The stubborn Clown,325The ill-tam’d Ruffian, and pale Usurer,(If Love’s omnipotence such hearts can mould)May safely mellow into love; and growRefin’d, humane, and generous, if they can.Love in such bosoms never to a fault330Or pains or pleases. But ye finer Souls,Form’d to soft luxury, and prompt to thrillWith all the tumults, all the joys and pains,That beauty gives; with caution and reserveIndulge the sweet destroyer of repose,335Nor court too much the Queen of charming cares.For, while the cherish’d poison in your breastFerments and maddens; sick with jealousy,Absence, distrust, or even with anxious joy,The wholsome appetites and powers of life340Dissolve in languor. The coy stomach loathsThe genial board: Your chearful days are gone:The generous bloom that flush’d your cheeks is fled.To sighs devoted and to tender pains,Pensive you sit, or solitary stray,345And waste your youth in musing. Musing firstToy’d into care your unsuspecting heart:It found a liking there, a sportful fire,And that fomented into serious love;Which musing daily strengthens and improves350Thro’ all the heights of fondness and romance:And you’re undone, the fatal shaft has sped,If once you doubt whether you love or no.The body wastes away; th’ infected mind,Dissolv’d in female tenderness, forgets355Each manly virtue, and grows dead to fame.Sweet heaven from such intoxicating charmsDefend all worthy breasts! Not that I deemLove always dangerous, always to be shun’d.Love well repaid, and not too weakly sunk360In wanton and unmanly tenderness,Adds bloom to Health; o’er every virtue shedsA gay, humane, and amiable grace,And brightens all the ornaments of man.But fruitless, hopeless, disappointed, rack’d365With jealousy, fatigued with hope and fear,Too serious, or too languishingly fond,Unnerves the body and unmans the soul.And some have died for Love; and some run mad;And some with desperate hand themselves have slain.370Some to extinguish, others to prevent,A mad devotion to one dangerous Fair,Court all they meet; in hopes to dissipateThe cares of Love amongst a hundred Brides.Th’ event is doubtful: for there are who find375A cure in this; there are who find it not.’Tis no relief, alas! it rather gallsThe wound, to those who are sincerely sick.For while from feverish and tumultuous joysThe nerves grow languid and the soul subsides;380The tender Fancy smarts with every sting;And what was Love before is Madness now.Is health your care, or luxury your aim,Be temperate still: When Nature bids obey;Her wild impatient sallies bear no curb.385But when the prurient habit of delight,Or loose Imagination, spurs you onTo deeds above your strength, impute it notTo Nature: Nature all compulsion hates.Ah! let nor luxury nor vain renown390Urge you to feats you well might sleep without;To make what should be rapture a fatigue,A tedious task; nor in the wanton armsOf twining Laïs melt your manhood down.For from the colliquation of soft joys395How chang’d you rise! the ghost of what you was!Languid, and melancholy, and gaunt, and wan;Your veins exhausted and your nerves unstrung.Spoil’d of its balm and sprightly zest, the bloodGrows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves400(To each slight impulse tremblingly awake)A subtle Fiend that mimics all the plaguesRapid and restless springs from part to part.The blooming honours of your youth are fallen;Your vigour pines; your vital powers decay;405Diseases haunt you; and untimely AgeCreeps on; unsocial, impotent, and lewd.Infatuate, impious, epicure! to wasteThe stores of pleasure, chearfulness, and health!Infatuate all who make delight their trade,410And coy perdition every hour pursue.Who pines with Love, or in lascivious flamesConsumes, is with his own consent undone:He chuses to be wretched, to be mad;And warn’d proceeds and wilful to his fate.415But there’s a Passion, whole tempestuous swayTears up each virtue planted in the breast,And shakes to ruins proud philosophy.For pale and trembling Anger rushes in,With fault’ring speech, and eyes that wildly stare;420Fierce as the Tyger, madder than the seas,Desperate, and arm’d with more than human strength.How soon the calm, humane, and polish’d manForgets compunction, and starts up a fiend!Who pines in Love, or wastes with silent Cares,425Envy, or Ignominy, or tender Grief,Slowly descends and ling’ring to the shades.But he whom Anger stings, drops, if he dies,At once, and rushes apoplectic down;Or a fierce fever hurries him to hell.430For, as the Body thro’ unnumber’d stringsReverberates each vibration of the Soul;As is the Passion, such is still the PainThe Body feels; or chronic, or acute.And oft a sudden storm at once o’erpowers435The Life, or gives your Reason to the winds.Such fates attend the rash alarm of Fear,And sudden Grief, and Rage, and sudden Joy.There are, mean time, to whom the boist’rous fitIs Health, and only fills the sails of life.440For where the Mind a torpid winter leads,Wrapt in a Body corpulent and cold,And each clogg’d function lazily moves on;A generous sally spurns th’ incumbent load,Unlocks the breast, and gives a cordial glow.445But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil,Or are your nerves too irritably strung;Wave all Dispute; be cautious if you joke;Keep Lent for ever; and forswear the Bowl.For one rash moment sends you to the shades,450Or shatters every hopeful scheme of life,And gives to horror all your days to come.Fate, arm’d with thunder, fire, and every plagueThat ruins, tortures, or distracts mankind,And makes the happy wretched in an hour,455O’erwhelms you not with woes so horribleAs your own Wrath, nor gives more sudden blows.While Choler works, good Friend, you may be wrong;Distrust yourself, and sleep before you fight.’Tis not too late to morrow to be brave;460If Honour bids, to morrow kill or die.But calm advice against a raging fitAvails too little; and it tries the powerOf all that ever taught in Prose or Song,To tame the Fiend that sleeps a gentle Lamb,465And wakes a Lion. Unprovok’d and calm,You reason well, see as you ought to see,And wonder at the madness of mankind:Seiz’d with the common rage, you soon forgetThe speculations of your wiser hours.470Beset with Furies of all deadly shapes,Fierce and insidious, violent and slow;With all that urge or lure us on to Fate;What refuge shall we seek? what arms prepare?Where Reason proves too weak, or void of wiles,475To cope with subtle or impetuous Powers,I would invoke new Passions to your aid:With Indignation would extinguish Fear,With Fear or generous Pity vanquish Rage,And Love with Pride; and force to force oppose.480There is a Charm: a Power that sways the breast;Bids every Passion revel or be still;Inspires with Rage, or all your Cares dissolves;Can sooth Distraction, and almost Despair.That Power is Music: Far beyond the stretch485Of those unmeaning warblers on our stage;Those clumsy Heroes, those fat-headed Gods,Who move no Passion justly but Contempt:Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong!)Do wond’rous feats, but never heard of grace.490The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous arts,Good Heaven! we praise them: we, with loudest peals,Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels;And, with insipid shew of rapture, dieOf ideot notes, impertinently long.495But he the Muse’s laurel justly shares,A Poet he, and touch’d with Heaven’s own fire;Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sounds,Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul;Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain,500In Love dissolves you; now in sprightly strainsBreathes a gay rapture thro’ your thrilling breast;Or melts the heart with airs divinely sad;Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings.Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains of old505Appeas’d the fiend of melancholy Saul.Such was, if old and heathen fame say true,The man who bade the Theban domes ascend,And tam’d the savage nations with his song;And such the Thracian, whose harmonious lyre,510Tun’d to soft woe, made all the mountains weep;Sooth’d even th’ inexorable powers of Hell,And half redeem’d his lost Eurydice.Music exalts each Joy, allays each Grief,Expells Diseases, softens every Pain,515Subdues the rage of Poison, and the Plague;And hence the wise of ancient days ador’dOne Power of Physic, Melody, and Song.

The choice of aliment, the choice of air,

The use of toil and all external things,

Already sung; it now remains to trace

What good what evil from ourselves proceeds:

And how the subtle principle within5

Inspires with health, or mines with strange decay

The passive body. Ye poetic Shades,

That know the secrets of the world unseen,

Assist my song! For, in a doubtful theme

Engag’d, I wander thro’ mysterious ways.10

There is, they say, (and I believe there is)A spark within us of th’ immortal fire,That animates and moulds the grosser frame;And when the body sinks, escapes to heaven,Its native seat; and mixes with the Gods.15Mean while this heavenly particle pervadesThe mortal elements, in every nerveIt thrills with pleasure, or grows mad with pain.And, in its secret conclave, as it feelsThe body’s woes and joys, this ruling power20Weilds at its will the dull material world,And is the body’s health or malady.

There is, they say, (and I believe there is)

A spark within us of th’ immortal fire,

That animates and moulds the grosser frame;

And when the body sinks, escapes to heaven,

Its native seat; and mixes with the Gods.15

Mean while this heavenly particle pervades

The mortal elements, in every nerve

It thrills with pleasure, or grows mad with pain.

And, in its secret conclave, as it feels

The body’s woes and joys, this ruling power20

Weilds at its will the dull material world,

And is the body’s health or malady.

By its own toil the gross corporeal frameFatigues, extenuates, or destroys itself:Nor less the labours of the mind corrode25The solid fabric. For by subtle parts,And viewless atoms, secret Nature movesThe mighty wheels of this stupendous world.By subtle fluids pour’d thro’ subtle tubesThe natural, vital, functions are perform’d.30By these the stubborn aliments are tam’d;The toiling heart distributes life and strength;These the still-crumbling frame rebuild; and theseAre lost in thinking, and dissolve in air.

By its own toil the gross corporeal frame

Fatigues, extenuates, or destroys itself:

Nor less the labours of the mind corrode25

The solid fabric. For by subtle parts,

And viewless atoms, secret Nature moves

The mighty wheels of this stupendous world.

By subtle fluids pour’d thro’ subtle tubes

The natural, vital, functions are perform’d.30

By these the stubborn aliments are tam’d;

The toiling heart distributes life and strength;

These the still-crumbling frame rebuild; and these

Are lost in thinking, and dissolve in air.

But ’tis not Thought (for still the soul’s employ’d)35’Tis painful thinking that corrodes our clay.All day the vacant eye without fatigueStrays o’er the heaven and earth; but long intentOn microscopic arts its vigour fails.Just so the mind, with various thought amus’d,40Nor aches itself, nor gives the body pain.But anxious Study, Discontent, and Care,Love without hope, and Hate without revenge,And Fear, and Jealousy, fatigue the soul,Engross the subtle ministers of life,45And spoil the lab’ring functions of their share.Hence the lean gloom that Melancholy wears;The Lover’s paleness; and the sallow hueOf Envy, Jealousy; the meagre stareOf sore Revenge: The canker’d body hence50Betrays each fretful motion of the mind.

But ’tis not Thought (for still the soul’s employ’d)35

’Tis painful thinking that corrodes our clay.

All day the vacant eye without fatigue

Strays o’er the heaven and earth; but long intent

On microscopic arts its vigour fails.

Just so the mind, with various thought amus’d,40

Nor aches itself, nor gives the body pain.

But anxious Study, Discontent, and Care,

Love without hope, and Hate without revenge,

And Fear, and Jealousy, fatigue the soul,

Engross the subtle ministers of life,45

And spoil the lab’ring functions of their share.

Hence the lean gloom that Melancholy wears;

The Lover’s paleness; and the sallow hue

Of Envy, Jealousy; the meagre stare

Of sore Revenge: The canker’d body hence50

Betrays each fretful motion of the mind.

The strong-built pedant; who both night and dayFeeds on the coarsest fare the schools bestow,And crudely fattens at gross Burman’s stall;O’erwhelm’d with phlegm lies in a dropsy drown’d,55Or sinks in lethargy before his time.With useful studies you, and arts that pleaseEmploy your mind, amuse but not fatigue.Peace to each drowsy metaphysic sage!And ever may the German folio’s rest!60Yet some there are, even of elastic parts,Whom strong and obstinate ambition leadsThro’ all the rugged roads of barren lore,And gives to relish what their generous tasteWould else refuse. But may nor thirst of fame65Nor love of knowledge urge you to fatigueWith constant drudgery the liberal soul.Toy with your books: and, as the various fitsOf humour seize you, from PhilosophyTo Fable shift; from serious Antonine70To Rabelais’ ravings, and from prose to song.

The strong-built pedant; who both night and day

Feeds on the coarsest fare the schools bestow,

And crudely fattens at gross Burman’s stall;

O’erwhelm’d with phlegm lies in a dropsy drown’d,55

Or sinks in lethargy before his time.

With useful studies you, and arts that please

Employ your mind, amuse but not fatigue.

Peace to each drowsy metaphysic sage!

And ever may the German folio’s rest!60

Yet some there are, even of elastic parts,

Whom strong and obstinate ambition leads

Thro’ all the rugged roads of barren lore,

And gives to relish what their generous taste

Would else refuse. But may nor thirst of fame65

Nor love of knowledge urge you to fatigue

With constant drudgery the liberal soul.

Toy with your books: and, as the various fits

Of humour seize you, from Philosophy

To Fable shift; from serious Antonine70

To Rabelais’ ravings, and from prose to song.

While reading pleases, but no longer, read;And read aloud resounding Homer’s strain,And weild the thunder of Demosthenes.The chest so exercis’d improves its strength;75And quick vibrations thro’ the bowels driveThe restless blood, which in unactive daysWould loiter else thro’ unelastic tubes.Deem it not trifling while I recommendWhat posture suits: To stand and sit by turns,80As nature prompts, is best. But o’er your leavesTo lean for ever, cramps the vital parts,And robs the fine machinery of its play.

While reading pleases, but no longer, read;

And read aloud resounding Homer’s strain,

And weild the thunder of Demosthenes.

The chest so exercis’d improves its strength;75

And quick vibrations thro’ the bowels drive

The restless blood, which in unactive days

Would loiter else thro’ unelastic tubes.

Deem it not trifling while I recommend

What posture suits: To stand and sit by turns,80

As nature prompts, is best. But o’er your leaves

To lean for ever, cramps the vital parts,

And robs the fine machinery of its play.

’Tis the great art of life to manage wellThe restless mind. For ever on pursuit85Of knowledge bent it starves the grosser powers.Quite unemploy’d, against its own reposeIts turns its fatal edge, and sharper pangsThan what the body knows embitter life.Chiefly where Solitude, sad nurse of care,90To sickly musing gives the pensive mind.There madness enters; and the dim-ey’d Fiend,Sour Melancholy, night and day provokesHer own eternal wound. The sun grows pale;A mournful visionary light o’erspreads95The chearful face of nature: earth becomesA dreary desart, and heaven frowns above.Then various shapes of curs’d illusion rise;Whate’er the wretched fears, creating FearForms out of nothing; and with monsters teems100Unknown in hell. The prostrate soul beneathA load of huge imagination heaves.And all the horrors, that the guilty feel,With anxious flutterings wake the guiltless breast.

’Tis the great art of life to manage well

The restless mind. For ever on pursuit85

Of knowledge bent it starves the grosser powers.

Quite unemploy’d, against its own repose

Its turns its fatal edge, and sharper pangs

Than what the body knows embitter life.

Chiefly where Solitude, sad nurse of care,90

To sickly musing gives the pensive mind.

There madness enters; and the dim-ey’d Fiend,

Sour Melancholy, night and day provokes

Her own eternal wound. The sun grows pale;

A mournful visionary light o’erspreads95

The chearful face of nature: earth becomes

A dreary desart, and heaven frowns above.

Then various shapes of curs’d illusion rise;

Whate’er the wretched fears, creating Fear

Forms out of nothing; and with monsters teems100

Unknown in hell. The prostrate soul beneath

A load of huge imagination heaves.

And all the horrors, that the guilty feel,

With anxious flutterings wake the guiltless breast.

Such phantoms Pride in solitary scenes,105Or Fear, on delicate Self-love creates.From other cares absolv’d, the busy mindFinds in yourself a theme to pore upon;It finds you miserable, or makes you so.For while yourself you anxiously explore,110Timorous Self-love, with sick’ning Fancy’s aid,Presents the danger that you dread the most,And ever galls you in your tender part.Hence some for love, and some for jealousy,For grim religion some, and some for pride,115Have lost their reason: some for fear of wantWant all their lives; and others every dayFor fear of dying suffer worse than death.Ah! from your bosoms banish, if you can,Those fatal guests: and first the Demon Fear;120That trembles at impossible events,Lest aged Atlas should resign his loadAnd heaven’s eternal battlements rush down.Is there an evil worse than fear itself?And what avails it that indulgent heaven125From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come,If we, ingenious to torment ourselves,Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own?Enjoy the present; nor with needless cares,Of what may spring from blind Misfortune’s womb,130Appal the surest hour that life bestows.Serene, and master of yourself, prepareFor what may come; and leave the rest to heaven.

Such phantoms Pride in solitary scenes,105

Or Fear, on delicate Self-love creates.

From other cares absolv’d, the busy mind

Finds in yourself a theme to pore upon;

It finds you miserable, or makes you so.

For while yourself you anxiously explore,110

Timorous Self-love, with sick’ning Fancy’s aid,

Presents the danger that you dread the most,

And ever galls you in your tender part.

Hence some for love, and some for jealousy,

For grim religion some, and some for pride,115

Have lost their reason: some for fear of want

Want all their lives; and others every day

For fear of dying suffer worse than death.

Ah! from your bosoms banish, if you can,

Those fatal guests: and first the Demon Fear;120

That trembles at impossible events,

Lest aged Atlas should resign his load

And heaven’s eternal battlements rush down.

Is there an evil worse than fear itself?

And what avails it that indulgent heaven125

From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come,

If we, ingenious to torment ourselves,

Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own?

Enjoy the present; nor with needless cares,

Of what may spring from blind Misfortune’s womb,130

Appal the surest hour that life bestows.

Serene, and master of yourself, prepare

For what may come; and leave the rest to heaven.

Oft from the body, by long ails mistun’d,These evils sprung the most important health,135That of the mind, destroy: And when the mindThey first invade, the conscious body soonIn sympathetic languishment declines.These chronic passions, while from real woesThey rise, and yet without the body’s fault140Infest the soul, admit one only cure;Diversion, hurry, and a restless life.Vain are the consolations of the wise,In vain your friends would reason down your pain.Oh ye whose souls relentless love has tam’d145To soft distress, or friends untimely slain!Court not the luxury of tender thought:Nor deem it impious to forget those painsThat hurt the living, nought avail the dead.Go, soft enthusiast! quit the cypress groves,150Nor to the rivulet’s lonely moanings tuneYour sad complaint. Go, seek the chearful hauntsOf men, and mingle with the bustling croud;Lay schemes for wealth, or power, or fame, the wishOf nobler minds, and push them night and day.155Or join the caravan in quest of scenesNew to your eyes, and shifting every hour;Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines.Or, more advent’rous, rush into the fieldWhere war grows hot; and, raging thro’ the sky,160The lofty trumpet swells the maddening soul:And in the hardy camp and toilsome marchForget all softer and less manly cares.

Oft from the body, by long ails mistun’d,

These evils sprung the most important health,135

That of the mind, destroy: And when the mind

They first invade, the conscious body soon

In sympathetic languishment declines.

These chronic passions, while from real woes

They rise, and yet without the body’s fault140

Infest the soul, admit one only cure;

Diversion, hurry, and a restless life.

Vain are the consolations of the wise,

In vain your friends would reason down your pain.

Oh ye whose souls relentless love has tam’d145

To soft distress, or friends untimely slain!

Court not the luxury of tender thought:

Nor deem it impious to forget those pains

That hurt the living, nought avail the dead.

Go, soft enthusiast! quit the cypress groves,150

Nor to the rivulet’s lonely moanings tune

Your sad complaint. Go, seek the chearful haunts

Of men, and mingle with the bustling croud;

Lay schemes for wealth, or power, or fame, the wish

Of nobler minds, and push them night and day.155

Or join the caravan in quest of scenes

New to your eyes, and shifting every hour;

Beyond the Alps, beyond the Apennines.

Or, more advent’rous, rush into the field

Where war grows hot; and, raging thro’ the sky,160

The lofty trumpet swells the maddening soul:

And in the hardy camp and toilsome march

Forget all softer and less manly cares.

But most too passive, when the blood runs low,Too weakly indolent to strive with pain,165And bravely by resisting conquer Fate,Try Circe’s arts; and in the tempting bowlOf poison’d Nectar sweet oblivion drink.Struck by the powerful charm, the gloom dissolvesIn empty air; Elysium opens round.170A pleasing phrenzy buoys the lighten’d soul,And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care;And what was difficult, and what was dire,Yields to your prowess and superior stars:The happiest you, of all that e’er were mad,175Or are, or shall be, could this folly last.But soon your heaven is gone; a heavier gloomShuts o’er your head: and, as the thundering stream,Swoln o’er its banks with sudden mountain rain,Sinks from its tumult to a silent brook;180So, when the frantic raptures in your breastSubside, you languish into mortal man;You sleep, and waking find yourself undone.For prodigal of life in one rash nightYou lavish’d more than might support three days.185A heavy morning comes; your cares returnWith tenfold rage. An anxious stomach wellMay be endur’d; so may the throbbing head:But such a dim delirium, such a dream,Involves you; such a dastardly despair190Unmans your soul, as madd’ning Pentheus feltWhen, baited round Citheron’s cruel sides,He saw two suns, and double Thebes ascend.You curse the sluggish Port; you curse the wretch,The felon, with unnatural mixture first195Who dar’d to violate the virgin Wine.Or on the fugitive Champain you pourA thousand curses; for to heav’n your soulIt rapt, to plunge you deeper in despair.Perhaps you rue even that divinest gift,200The gay, serene, good-natur’d Burgundy,Or the fresh fragrant vintage of the Rhine:And with that heaven from mortals had withheldThe grape, and all intoxicating bowls.

But most too passive, when the blood runs low,

Too weakly indolent to strive with pain,165

And bravely by resisting conquer Fate,

Try Circe’s arts; and in the tempting bowl

Of poison’d Nectar sweet oblivion drink.

Struck by the powerful charm, the gloom dissolves

In empty air; Elysium opens round.170

A pleasing phrenzy buoys the lighten’d soul,

And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care;

And what was difficult, and what was dire,

Yields to your prowess and superior stars:

The happiest you, of all that e’er were mad,175

Or are, or shall be, could this folly last.

But soon your heaven is gone; a heavier gloom

Shuts o’er your head: and, as the thundering stream,

Swoln o’er its banks with sudden mountain rain,

Sinks from its tumult to a silent brook;180

So, when the frantic raptures in your breast

Subside, you languish into mortal man;

You sleep, and waking find yourself undone.

For prodigal of life in one rash night

You lavish’d more than might support three days.185

A heavy morning comes; your cares return

With tenfold rage. An anxious stomach well

May be endur’d; so may the throbbing head:

But such a dim delirium, such a dream,

Involves you; such a dastardly despair190

Unmans your soul, as madd’ning Pentheus felt

When, baited round Citheron’s cruel sides,

He saw two suns, and double Thebes ascend.

You curse the sluggish Port; you curse the wretch,

The felon, with unnatural mixture first195

Who dar’d to violate the virgin Wine.

Or on the fugitive Champain you pour

A thousand curses; for to heav’n your soul

It rapt, to plunge you deeper in despair.

Perhaps you rue even that divinest gift,200

The gay, serene, good-natur’d Burgundy,

Or the fresh fragrant vintage of the Rhine:

And with that heaven from mortals had withheld

The grape, and all intoxicating bowls.

Besides, it wounds you sore to recollect205What follies in your loose unguarded hourEscap’d. By one irrevocable word,Perhaps that meant no harm, you lose a friend.Or in the rage of wine your hasty handPerforms a deed to haunt you to your grave.210Add that your means, your health, your parts decay;Your friends avoid you; brutishly transform’dThey hardly know you; or if one remainsTo wish you well, he wishes you in heaven.Despis’d, unwept you fall; who might have left215A sacred, cherish’d, sadly-pleasing name;A name still to be utter’d with a sigh.Your last ungraceful scene has quite effac’dAll sense and memory of your former worth.

Besides, it wounds you sore to recollect205

What follies in your loose unguarded hour

Escap’d. By one irrevocable word,

Perhaps that meant no harm, you lose a friend.

Or in the rage of wine your hasty hand

Performs a deed to haunt you to your grave.210

Add that your means, your health, your parts decay;

Your friends avoid you; brutishly transform’d

They hardly know you; or if one remains

To wish you well, he wishes you in heaven.

Despis’d, unwept you fall; who might have left215

A sacred, cherish’d, sadly-pleasing name;

A name still to be utter’d with a sigh.

Your last ungraceful scene has quite effac’d

All sense and memory of your former worth.

How to live happiest; how avoid the pains,220The disappointments, and disgusts of thoseWho would in pleasure all their hours employ;The precepts here of a divine old manI could recite. Tho’ old, he still retain’dHis manly sense, and energy of mind.225Virtuous and wise he was, but not severe;He still remember’d that he once was young;His easy presence check’d no decent joy.Him even the dissolute admir’d; for heA graceful looseness when he pleas’d put on,230And laughing cou’d instruct. Much had he read,Much more had seen; he studied from the life,And in th’ original perus’d mankind.

How to live happiest; how avoid the pains,220

The disappointments, and disgusts of those

Who would in pleasure all their hours employ;

The precepts here of a divine old man

I could recite. Tho’ old, he still retain’d

His manly sense, and energy of mind.225

Virtuous and wise he was, but not severe;

He still remember’d that he once was young;

His easy presence check’d no decent joy.

Him even the dissolute admir’d; for he

A graceful looseness when he pleas’d put on,230

And laughing cou’d instruct. Much had he read,

Much more had seen; he studied from the life,

And in th’ original perus’d mankind.

Vers’d in the woes and vanities of life,He pitied man: And much he pitied those235Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs’d with meansTo dissipate their days in quest of joy.Our aim is Happiness; ’tis yours, ’tis mine,He said, ’tis the pursuit of all that live;Yet few attain it, if ’twas e’er attain’d.240But they the widest wander from the mark,Who thro’ the flow’ry paths of saunt’ring JoySeek this coy Goddess; that from stage to stageInvites us still, but shifts as we pursue.For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings245To counterpoise itself, relentless FateForbids that we thro’ gay voluptuous wildsShould ever roam: And were the Fates more kindOur narrow luxuries would soon be stale.Were these exhaustless, Nature would grow sick,250And, cloy’d with pleasure, squeamishly complainThat all was vanity, and life a dream.Let nature rest: Be busy for yourself,And for your friend; be busy even in vainRather than teize her sated appetites.255Who never fasts no banquet e’er enjoys;Who never toils or watches never sleeps.Let nature rest: And when the taste of joyGrows keen, indulge; but shun satiety.

Vers’d in the woes and vanities of life,

He pitied man: And much he pitied those235

Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs’d with means

To dissipate their days in quest of joy.

Our aim is Happiness; ’tis yours, ’tis mine,

He said, ’tis the pursuit of all that live;

Yet few attain it, if ’twas e’er attain’d.240

But they the widest wander from the mark,

Who thro’ the flow’ry paths of saunt’ring Joy

Seek this coy Goddess; that from stage to stage

Invites us still, but shifts as we pursue.

For, not to name the pains that pleasure brings245

To counterpoise itself, relentless Fate

Forbids that we thro’ gay voluptuous wilds

Should ever roam: And were the Fates more kind

Our narrow luxuries would soon be stale.

Were these exhaustless, Nature would grow sick,250

And, cloy’d with pleasure, squeamishly complain

That all was vanity, and life a dream.

Let nature rest: Be busy for yourself,

And for your friend; be busy even in vain

Rather than teize her sated appetites.255

Who never fasts no banquet e’er enjoys;

Who never toils or watches never sleeps.

Let nature rest: And when the taste of joy

Grows keen, indulge; but shun satiety.

’Tis not for mortals always to be blest.260But him the least the dull or painful hoursOf life oppress, whom sober Sense conductsAnd Virtue, thro’ this labyrinth we tread.Virtue and Sense I mean not to disjoin;Virtue and Sense are one; and, trust me, he265Who has not virtue is not truly wise.Virtue (for meer good-nature is a fool)Is sense and spirit, with humanity:’Tis sometimes angry, and its frown confounds;’Tis even vindictive, but in vengeance just.270Knaves fain would laugh at it; some great ones dare;But at his heart the most undaunted sonOf fortune dreads its name and awful charms.To noblest uses this determines wealth;This is the solid pomp of prosperous days;275The peace and shelter of adversity.And if you pant for glory, build your fameOn this foundation, which the secret shockDefies of Envy and all-sapping Time.The gawdy gloss of Fortune only strikes280The vulgar eye: The suffrage of the wise,The praise that’s worth ambition, is attain’dBy Sense alone, and dignity of mind.

’Tis not for mortals always to be blest.260

But him the least the dull or painful hours

Of life oppress, whom sober Sense conducts

And Virtue, thro’ this labyrinth we tread.

Virtue and Sense I mean not to disjoin;

Virtue and Sense are one; and, trust me, he265

Who has not virtue is not truly wise.

Virtue (for meer good-nature is a fool)

Is sense and spirit, with humanity:

’Tis sometimes angry, and its frown confounds;

’Tis even vindictive, but in vengeance just.270

Knaves fain would laugh at it; some great ones dare;

But at his heart the most undaunted son

Of fortune dreads its name and awful charms.

To noblest uses this determines wealth;

This is the solid pomp of prosperous days;275

The peace and shelter of adversity.

And if you pant for glory, build your fame

On this foundation, which the secret shock

Defies of Envy and all-sapping Time.

The gawdy gloss of Fortune only strikes280

The vulgar eye: The suffrage of the wise,

The praise that’s worth ambition, is attain’d

By Sense alone, and dignity of mind.

Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul,Is the best gift of heaven: a happiness285That even above the smiles and frowns of fateExalts great Nature’s favourites: a wealthThat ne’er encumbers, nor to baser handsCan be transfer’d: it is the only goodMan justly boasts of, or can call his own.290Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn’d;Or dealt by chance, to shield a lucky knave,Or throw a cruel sun-shine on a fool.But for one end, one much-neglected use,Are riches worth your care: (for Nature’s wants295Are few, and without opulence supplied.)This noble end is, to produce the Soul;To shew the virtues in their fairest light;To make Humanity the MinisterOf bounteous Providence; and teach the Breast300That generous luxury the Gods enjoy.

Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul,

Is the best gift of heaven: a happiness285

That even above the smiles and frowns of fate

Exalts great Nature’s favourites: a wealth

That ne’er encumbers, nor to baser hands

Can be transfer’d: it is the only good

Man justly boasts of, or can call his own.290

Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn’d;

Or dealt by chance, to shield a lucky knave,

Or throw a cruel sun-shine on a fool.

But for one end, one much-neglected use,

Are riches worth your care: (for Nature’s wants295

Are few, and without opulence supplied.)

This noble end is, to produce the Soul;

To shew the virtues in their fairest light;

To make Humanity the Minister

Of bounteous Providence; and teach the Breast300

That generous luxury the Gods enjoy.

Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly SageSometimes declaim’d. Of Right and Wrong he taughtTruths as resin’d as ever Athens heard;And (strange to tell!) he practis’d what he preach’d.305Skill’d in the Passions, how to check their swayHe knew, as far as Reason can controulThe lawless Powers. But other cares are mine:Form’d in the school of Pæon, I relateWhat Passions hurt the body, what improve:310Avoid them, or invite them, as you may.

Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly Sage

Sometimes declaim’d. Of Right and Wrong he taught

Truths as resin’d as ever Athens heard;

And (strange to tell!) he practis’d what he preach’d.305

Skill’d in the Passions, how to check their sway

He knew, as far as Reason can controul

The lawless Powers. But other cares are mine:

Form’d in the school of Pæon, I relate

What Passions hurt the body, what improve:310

Avoid them, or invite them, as you may.

Know then, whatever chearful and sereneSupports the mind, supports the body too.Hence the most vital movement mortals feelIs Hope; the balm and life-blood of the soul.315It pleases, and it lasts. Indulgent heavenSent down the kind delusion, thro’ the pathsOf rugged life; to lead us patient on;And make our happiest state no tedious thing.Our greatest good, and what we least can spare.320Is Hope; the last of all our evils, Fear.

Know then, whatever chearful and serene

Supports the mind, supports the body too.

Hence the most vital movement mortals feel

Is Hope; the balm and life-blood of the soul.315

It pleases, and it lasts. Indulgent heaven

Sent down the kind delusion, thro’ the paths

Of rugged life; to lead us patient on;

And make our happiest state no tedious thing.

Our greatest good, and what we least can spare.320

Is Hope; the last of all our evils, Fear.

But there are Passions grateful to the breast,And yet no friends to Life; perhaps they pleaseOr to excess, and dissipate the soul;Or while they please, torment. The stubborn Clown,325The ill-tam’d Ruffian, and pale Usurer,(If Love’s omnipotence such hearts can mould)May safely mellow into love; and growRefin’d, humane, and generous, if they can.Love in such bosoms never to a fault330Or pains or pleases. But ye finer Souls,Form’d to soft luxury, and prompt to thrillWith all the tumults, all the joys and pains,That beauty gives; with caution and reserveIndulge the sweet destroyer of repose,335Nor court too much the Queen of charming cares.For, while the cherish’d poison in your breastFerments and maddens; sick with jealousy,Absence, distrust, or even with anxious joy,The wholsome appetites and powers of life340Dissolve in languor. The coy stomach loathsThe genial board: Your chearful days are gone:The generous bloom that flush’d your cheeks is fled.To sighs devoted and to tender pains,Pensive you sit, or solitary stray,345And waste your youth in musing. Musing firstToy’d into care your unsuspecting heart:It found a liking there, a sportful fire,And that fomented into serious love;Which musing daily strengthens and improves350Thro’ all the heights of fondness and romance:And you’re undone, the fatal shaft has sped,If once you doubt whether you love or no.The body wastes away; th’ infected mind,Dissolv’d in female tenderness, forgets355Each manly virtue, and grows dead to fame.Sweet heaven from such intoxicating charmsDefend all worthy breasts! Not that I deemLove always dangerous, always to be shun’d.Love well repaid, and not too weakly sunk360In wanton and unmanly tenderness,Adds bloom to Health; o’er every virtue shedsA gay, humane, and amiable grace,And brightens all the ornaments of man.But fruitless, hopeless, disappointed, rack’d365With jealousy, fatigued with hope and fear,Too serious, or too languishingly fond,Unnerves the body and unmans the soul.And some have died for Love; and some run mad;And some with desperate hand themselves have slain.370

But there are Passions grateful to the breast,

And yet no friends to Life; perhaps they please

Or to excess, and dissipate the soul;

Or while they please, torment. The stubborn Clown,325

The ill-tam’d Ruffian, and pale Usurer,

(If Love’s omnipotence such hearts can mould)

May safely mellow into love; and grow

Refin’d, humane, and generous, if they can.

Love in such bosoms never to a fault330

Or pains or pleases. But ye finer Souls,

Form’d to soft luxury, and prompt to thrill

With all the tumults, all the joys and pains,

That beauty gives; with caution and reserve

Indulge the sweet destroyer of repose,335

Nor court too much the Queen of charming cares.

For, while the cherish’d poison in your breast

Ferments and maddens; sick with jealousy,

Absence, distrust, or even with anxious joy,

The wholsome appetites and powers of life340

Dissolve in languor. The coy stomach loaths

The genial board: Your chearful days are gone:

The generous bloom that flush’d your cheeks is fled.

To sighs devoted and to tender pains,

Pensive you sit, or solitary stray,345

And waste your youth in musing. Musing first

Toy’d into care your unsuspecting heart:

It found a liking there, a sportful fire,

And that fomented into serious love;

Which musing daily strengthens and improves350

Thro’ all the heights of fondness and romance:

And you’re undone, the fatal shaft has sped,

If once you doubt whether you love or no.

The body wastes away; th’ infected mind,

Dissolv’d in female tenderness, forgets355

Each manly virtue, and grows dead to fame.

Sweet heaven from such intoxicating charms

Defend all worthy breasts! Not that I deem

Love always dangerous, always to be shun’d.

Love well repaid, and not too weakly sunk360

In wanton and unmanly tenderness,

Adds bloom to Health; o’er every virtue sheds

A gay, humane, and amiable grace,

And brightens all the ornaments of man.

But fruitless, hopeless, disappointed, rack’d365

With jealousy, fatigued with hope and fear,

Too serious, or too languishingly fond,

Unnerves the body and unmans the soul.

And some have died for Love; and some run mad;

And some with desperate hand themselves have slain.370

Some to extinguish, others to prevent,A mad devotion to one dangerous Fair,Court all they meet; in hopes to dissipateThe cares of Love amongst a hundred Brides.Th’ event is doubtful: for there are who find375A cure in this; there are who find it not.’Tis no relief, alas! it rather gallsThe wound, to those who are sincerely sick.For while from feverish and tumultuous joysThe nerves grow languid and the soul subsides;380The tender Fancy smarts with every sting;And what was Love before is Madness now.Is health your care, or luxury your aim,Be temperate still: When Nature bids obey;Her wild impatient sallies bear no curb.385But when the prurient habit of delight,Or loose Imagination, spurs you onTo deeds above your strength, impute it notTo Nature: Nature all compulsion hates.Ah! let nor luxury nor vain renown390Urge you to feats you well might sleep without;To make what should be rapture a fatigue,A tedious task; nor in the wanton armsOf twining Laïs melt your manhood down.For from the colliquation of soft joys395How chang’d you rise! the ghost of what you was!Languid, and melancholy, and gaunt, and wan;Your veins exhausted and your nerves unstrung.Spoil’d of its balm and sprightly zest, the bloodGrows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves400(To each slight impulse tremblingly awake)A subtle Fiend that mimics all the plaguesRapid and restless springs from part to part.The blooming honours of your youth are fallen;Your vigour pines; your vital powers decay;405Diseases haunt you; and untimely AgeCreeps on; unsocial, impotent, and lewd.Infatuate, impious, epicure! to wasteThe stores of pleasure, chearfulness, and health!Infatuate all who make delight their trade,410And coy perdition every hour pursue.

Some to extinguish, others to prevent,

A mad devotion to one dangerous Fair,

Court all they meet; in hopes to dissipate

The cares of Love amongst a hundred Brides.

Th’ event is doubtful: for there are who find375

A cure in this; there are who find it not.

’Tis no relief, alas! it rather galls

The wound, to those who are sincerely sick.

For while from feverish and tumultuous joys

The nerves grow languid and the soul subsides;380

The tender Fancy smarts with every sting;

And what was Love before is Madness now.

Is health your care, or luxury your aim,

Be temperate still: When Nature bids obey;

Her wild impatient sallies bear no curb.385

But when the prurient habit of delight,

Or loose Imagination, spurs you on

To deeds above your strength, impute it not

To Nature: Nature all compulsion hates.

Ah! let nor luxury nor vain renown390

Urge you to feats you well might sleep without;

To make what should be rapture a fatigue,

A tedious task; nor in the wanton arms

Of twining Laïs melt your manhood down.

For from the colliquation of soft joys395

How chang’d you rise! the ghost of what you was!

Languid, and melancholy, and gaunt, and wan;

Your veins exhausted and your nerves unstrung.

Spoil’d of its balm and sprightly zest, the blood

Grows vapid phlegm; along the tender nerves400

(To each slight impulse tremblingly awake)

A subtle Fiend that mimics all the plagues

Rapid and restless springs from part to part.

The blooming honours of your youth are fallen;

Your vigour pines; your vital powers decay;405

Diseases haunt you; and untimely Age

Creeps on; unsocial, impotent, and lewd.

Infatuate, impious, epicure! to waste

The stores of pleasure, chearfulness, and health!

Infatuate all who make delight their trade,410

And coy perdition every hour pursue.

Who pines with Love, or in lascivious flamesConsumes, is with his own consent undone:He chuses to be wretched, to be mad;And warn’d proceeds and wilful to his fate.415But there’s a Passion, whole tempestuous swayTears up each virtue planted in the breast,And shakes to ruins proud philosophy.For pale and trembling Anger rushes in,With fault’ring speech, and eyes that wildly stare;420Fierce as the Tyger, madder than the seas,Desperate, and arm’d with more than human strength.How soon the calm, humane, and polish’d manForgets compunction, and starts up a fiend!Who pines in Love, or wastes with silent Cares,425Envy, or Ignominy, or tender Grief,Slowly descends and ling’ring to the shades.But he whom Anger stings, drops, if he dies,At once, and rushes apoplectic down;Or a fierce fever hurries him to hell.430For, as the Body thro’ unnumber’d stringsReverberates each vibration of the Soul;As is the Passion, such is still the PainThe Body feels; or chronic, or acute.And oft a sudden storm at once o’erpowers435The Life, or gives your Reason to the winds.Such fates attend the rash alarm of Fear,And sudden Grief, and Rage, and sudden Joy.

Who pines with Love, or in lascivious flames

Consumes, is with his own consent undone:

He chuses to be wretched, to be mad;

And warn’d proceeds and wilful to his fate.415

But there’s a Passion, whole tempestuous sway

Tears up each virtue planted in the breast,

And shakes to ruins proud philosophy.

For pale and trembling Anger rushes in,

With fault’ring speech, and eyes that wildly stare;420

Fierce as the Tyger, madder than the seas,

Desperate, and arm’d with more than human strength.

How soon the calm, humane, and polish’d man

Forgets compunction, and starts up a fiend!

Who pines in Love, or wastes with silent Cares,425

Envy, or Ignominy, or tender Grief,

Slowly descends and ling’ring to the shades.

But he whom Anger stings, drops, if he dies,

At once, and rushes apoplectic down;

Or a fierce fever hurries him to hell.430

For, as the Body thro’ unnumber’d strings

Reverberates each vibration of the Soul;

As is the Passion, such is still the Pain

The Body feels; or chronic, or acute.

And oft a sudden storm at once o’erpowers435

The Life, or gives your Reason to the winds.

Such fates attend the rash alarm of Fear,

And sudden Grief, and Rage, and sudden Joy.

There are, mean time, to whom the boist’rous fitIs Health, and only fills the sails of life.440For where the Mind a torpid winter leads,Wrapt in a Body corpulent and cold,And each clogg’d function lazily moves on;A generous sally spurns th’ incumbent load,Unlocks the breast, and gives a cordial glow.445But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil,Or are your nerves too irritably strung;Wave all Dispute; be cautious if you joke;Keep Lent for ever; and forswear the Bowl.For one rash moment sends you to the shades,450Or shatters every hopeful scheme of life,And gives to horror all your days to come.Fate, arm’d with thunder, fire, and every plagueThat ruins, tortures, or distracts mankind,And makes the happy wretched in an hour,455O’erwhelms you not with woes so horribleAs your own Wrath, nor gives more sudden blows.

There are, mean time, to whom the boist’rous fit

Is Health, and only fills the sails of life.440

For where the Mind a torpid winter leads,

Wrapt in a Body corpulent and cold,

And each clogg’d function lazily moves on;

A generous sally spurns th’ incumbent load,

Unlocks the breast, and gives a cordial glow.445

But if your wrathful blood is apt to boil,

Or are your nerves too irritably strung;

Wave all Dispute; be cautious if you joke;

Keep Lent for ever; and forswear the Bowl.

For one rash moment sends you to the shades,450

Or shatters every hopeful scheme of life,

And gives to horror all your days to come.

Fate, arm’d with thunder, fire, and every plague

That ruins, tortures, or distracts mankind,

And makes the happy wretched in an hour,455

O’erwhelms you not with woes so horrible

As your own Wrath, nor gives more sudden blows.

While Choler works, good Friend, you may be wrong;Distrust yourself, and sleep before you fight.’Tis not too late to morrow to be brave;460If Honour bids, to morrow kill or die.But calm advice against a raging fitAvails too little; and it tries the powerOf all that ever taught in Prose or Song,To tame the Fiend that sleeps a gentle Lamb,465And wakes a Lion. Unprovok’d and calm,You reason well, see as you ought to see,And wonder at the madness of mankind:Seiz’d with the common rage, you soon forgetThe speculations of your wiser hours.470Beset with Furies of all deadly shapes,Fierce and insidious, violent and slow;With all that urge or lure us on to Fate;What refuge shall we seek? what arms prepare?Where Reason proves too weak, or void of wiles,475To cope with subtle or impetuous Powers,I would invoke new Passions to your aid:With Indignation would extinguish Fear,With Fear or generous Pity vanquish Rage,And Love with Pride; and force to force oppose.480

While Choler works, good Friend, you may be wrong;

Distrust yourself, and sleep before you fight.

’Tis not too late to morrow to be brave;460

If Honour bids, to morrow kill or die.

But calm advice against a raging fit

Avails too little; and it tries the power

Of all that ever taught in Prose or Song,

To tame the Fiend that sleeps a gentle Lamb,465

And wakes a Lion. Unprovok’d and calm,

You reason well, see as you ought to see,

And wonder at the madness of mankind:

Seiz’d with the common rage, you soon forget

The speculations of your wiser hours.470

Beset with Furies of all deadly shapes,

Fierce and insidious, violent and slow;

With all that urge or lure us on to Fate;

What refuge shall we seek? what arms prepare?

Where Reason proves too weak, or void of wiles,475

To cope with subtle or impetuous Powers,

I would invoke new Passions to your aid:

With Indignation would extinguish Fear,

With Fear or generous Pity vanquish Rage,

And Love with Pride; and force to force oppose.480

There is a Charm: a Power that sways the breast;Bids every Passion revel or be still;Inspires with Rage, or all your Cares dissolves;Can sooth Distraction, and almost Despair.That Power is Music: Far beyond the stretch485Of those unmeaning warblers on our stage;Those clumsy Heroes, those fat-headed Gods,Who move no Passion justly but Contempt:Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong!)Do wond’rous feats, but never heard of grace.490The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous arts,Good Heaven! we praise them: we, with loudest peals,Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels;And, with insipid shew of rapture, dieOf ideot notes, impertinently long.495But he the Muse’s laurel justly shares,A Poet he, and touch’d with Heaven’s own fire;Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sounds,Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul;Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain,500In Love dissolves you; now in sprightly strainsBreathes a gay rapture thro’ your thrilling breast;Or melts the heart with airs divinely sad;Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings.Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains of old505Appeas’d the fiend of melancholy Saul.Such was, if old and heathen fame say true,The man who bade the Theban domes ascend,And tam’d the savage nations with his song;And such the Thracian, whose harmonious lyre,510Tun’d to soft woe, made all the mountains weep;Sooth’d even th’ inexorable powers of Hell,And half redeem’d his lost Eurydice.Music exalts each Joy, allays each Grief,Expells Diseases, softens every Pain,515Subdues the rage of Poison, and the Plague;And hence the wise of ancient days ador’dOne Power of Physic, Melody, and Song.

There is a Charm: a Power that sways the breast;

Bids every Passion revel or be still;

Inspires with Rage, or all your Cares dissolves;

Can sooth Distraction, and almost Despair.

That Power is Music: Far beyond the stretch485

Of those unmeaning warblers on our stage;

Those clumsy Heroes, those fat-headed Gods,

Who move no Passion justly but Contempt:

Who, like our dancers (light indeed and strong!)

Do wond’rous feats, but never heard of grace.490

The fault is ours; we bear those monstrous arts,

Good Heaven! we praise them: we, with loudest peals,

Applaud the fool that highest lifts his heels;

And, with insipid shew of rapture, die

Of ideot notes, impertinently long.495

But he the Muse’s laurel justly shares,

A Poet he, and touch’d with Heaven’s own fire;

Who, with bold rage or solemn pomp of sounds,

Inflames, exalts, and ravishes the soul;

Now tender, plaintive, sweet almost to pain,500

In Love dissolves you; now in sprightly strains

Breathes a gay rapture thro’ your thrilling breast;

Or melts the heart with airs divinely sad;

Or wakes to horror the tremendous strings.

Such was the bard, whose heavenly strains of old505

Appeas’d the fiend of melancholy Saul.

Such was, if old and heathen fame say true,

The man who bade the Theban domes ascend,

And tam’d the savage nations with his song;

And such the Thracian, whose harmonious lyre,510

Tun’d to soft woe, made all the mountains weep;

Sooth’d even th’ inexorable powers of Hell,

And half redeem’d his lost Eurydice.

Music exalts each Joy, allays each Grief,

Expells Diseases, softens every Pain,515

Subdues the rage of Poison, and the Plague;

And hence the wise of ancient days ador’d

One Power of Physic, Melody, and Song.

TheEND.

FOOTNOTES:1Hygeia the goddess of health, was, according to the genealogy of the heathen deities, the daughter of Esculapius; who, as well as Apollo, was distinguished by the name of Pæon.2The wild rose, or that which grows upon the wild briar.3The burning fever.4Hippocrates.5In the human body, as well as in those of other animals, the larger blood-vessels are composed of smaller ones; which, by the violent motion and pressure of the fluids in the large vessels, lose their cavities by degrees, and degenerate into impervious chords or fibres. In proportion as these small vessels become solid, the larger must of course grow less extensile, more rigid, and make a stronger resistance to the action of the heart, and force of the blood. From this gradual condensation of the smaller vessels, and consequent rigidity of the larger ones, the progress of the human body from infancy to old age is accounted for.6This word is much used by some of the old English poets, and signifies Reward or Prize.7The inflammation of the lungs.

1Hygeia the goddess of health, was, according to the genealogy of the heathen deities, the daughter of Esculapius; who, as well as Apollo, was distinguished by the name of Pæon.

2The wild rose, or that which grows upon the wild briar.

3The burning fever.

4Hippocrates.

5In the human body, as well as in those of other animals, the larger blood-vessels are composed of smaller ones; which, by the violent motion and pressure of the fluids in the large vessels, lose their cavities by degrees, and degenerate into impervious chords or fibres. In proportion as these small vessels become solid, the larger must of course grow less extensile, more rigid, and make a stronger resistance to the action of the heart, and force of the blood. From this gradual condensation of the smaller vessels, and consequent rigidity of the larger ones, the progress of the human body from infancy to old age is accounted for.

6This word is much used by some of the old English poets, and signifies Reward or Prize.

7The inflammation of the lungs.

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