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Doubtlefs you're right, in your fuperior Way,
B. Why am I preaching to a Lump of Earth?
Yethis good injur'd Angel tiirn'd a Fiend,
Is not fo loon from her Commiiîion wean'd;
With tenfold Fury from her Torpor wakes,
Darts in his Face her Sulphur, and her Snakes,
Diftinguiihing for ever to her Prey,
The Night with Horror, and with Shame the Day.
Be mine then, all Thou thinkeft but a Dream;
Come, Virtues fair Companion, confcious Thought!
Make me ftill bold, to Manhood up, from Youth,
And when returning Seafons bring my Age • ■ (The Care for ever of the Good and Sage) Bufy'd no more in the World's empty Strife, When all deferts me, e'en my very Life; Then, confcious Thought', refufe me not thy Aid, But with thy Gleams refreih my lonely Shade.
But what for Thee, thou mifcreant vile Remains, When ebbing Nature creeps along thy Veins? I mall poiîèfs the pure ethereal Toy, Which Nought on Earth can heighten or annoy: A floating painted Bubble but thy Share, That Bubble broken by a Breath of Air; Thy Heart with Joy elate, with Sorrow drown'd, As a rich Puppy juft hath fmil'd or frown'd. Perhaps the nobleft Triumph of thy Soul Will be the Chance of a Sans prendre Vlie: To flee thyfelf thou wilt be forc'd to crawl, And ftrive to hop with Burnett at a Ball j Conílftent but in one infernal Plan, To war with Nature, with thyfelf, and Man;
Splutter, the verieft wrangling Thing alive,
But diiFrent Entertainment will await
Bbrwick, Dec. t?,