But if he play the glutton and exceed,
His benefactress blufhes at the deed.
For nature, nice, as lib'ral to difpenfe,
Made nothing but a brute the flave of fenfe.
Daniel ate pulfe by choice, example rare !
Heav'n blefs'd the youth, and made him fresh and fair.'
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 jockies take a sweat,
Oh naufeous! an emetic for a whet-
Will Providence o'erlook the wasted good?
Temperance were no virtue if he could.
That pleasures, therefore, or what fuch 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' excess.
Is man then only for his torment plac'd,
The centre of delights he may not taste?
Like fabled Tantalus condemn'd to hear.
The precious ftream ftill purling in his ear,
Lip-deep in what he longs for, and yet curft
With prohibition and perpetual thirft?
No, wrangler-deftitute of fhame and fenfe,
The precept that enjoins him abftinence,
Forbids him none but the licentious joy,
Whose fruit, though fair, tempts only to destroy.
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 fcorpion 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 ftarv'd at your inhofpitable door?
Or if yourself too fcantily fupplied
Need help, let honest industry provide.
These both are pleasures to the feeling heart,
No pleasure? Has fome fickly eastern wafte
Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast ?
Can British paradife no fcenes 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, would tell you 'tis a lie,
And judge you from the kennel and the stye.
Delights like these, ye fenfual and profane,
Ye are bid, begg'd, befought to entertain;
Call'd to these chryftal freams, do ye turn off
Obscene, to swill and fwallow at a trough?
Envy the beaft then, on whom heav'n bestows
Your pleasures, with no curfes in the close.
Pleasure admitted in undue degree,
Enflaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free.
'Tis not alone the grape's enticing juice,
Unnerves the moral pow'rs and mars 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 fway,
And all their deep impreffion wear away.
So coin grows fmooth, in traffic current pass'd,
Till Cæfar's image is effac'd at laft.
The breach, though small at first, foon op'ning wide,
In rushes folly with a full-moon tide.
Then welcome errors of whatever fize,
To juftify 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 whose 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 coarfenefs with a veil.
Not more induftrious are the just and true
To give to virtue what is virtue's due,
The praise of wisdom, comeliness and worth,
And call her charms to public notice forth,
Than vice's mean and difingenuous race,
To hide the fhocking 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 beft a toy,
A trifle if it move but to amufe,
But if to wrong the judgment and abuse,
Worfe than a poignard in the basest 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 novelifts who mar what ye would mend,
Sniv'ling and driv'ling folly without end,
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