You rage and storm, and blafphemously loud,
As & Stentor bellowing to the Grecian Crowd,
Or Homer's 9 Mars, with too much Warmth exclaim;"
Jove, doft Thou hear, and is thy Thunder tame?
Wert Thou all Brafs, thy Brazen Arm should rage,
And fix the Wretch a Sign to future Age:
Elfe why fhou'd Mortals to thy Feafts repair,
Spend useless Incenfe, and more afeless Prayer?
Bathyllus' 1 Statue at this rate may prove
Thy equal Rival, or a greater
Be cool, my Friend, and hear my Mufe dispense Some fovereign Comforts, drawn from common Senfe; Not fetch'd from Stoicks rigid Schools, nor wrought By Epicurus' more indulgent Thought; Who led by Nature, did with Eafe purfue The Rules of Life; guefs'd beft, tho' miss'd the true. A desperate Wound muft skilful Hands employ, But thine is curable by 11 Philip's Boy.
Look o'er the present and the former Time:
If no Example of fo Vile à Crime
Appears, then Mourn; admit no kind Relief,
But beat thy Breaft, and I applaud thy Grief;
Let Sorrow then appear in all her State,
Keep mournful Silence, and fhut faft thy Gate.
Let folemn Grief on Money loft attend,
Greater than waits upon a dying Friend;
• Stentor. A famous Crier in the Grecian Army, whofe fingle voice was as loud as that of fifty Men together.
9 Homer fays that Mars being wounded by Diomedes, made as great an Out-cry, as Ten
Thousand Men shouting to the
Battel.
To A Fidler and a Player: But put here for an idle Scoundrel or infignificant Fellow.
11 A Surgeon of no great Credit and Reputation.
None feigns, none acted Mourning's forc'd to show,
Or fqueeze his Eyes to make that Torrent flow;
For Money loft demands a heartier Due;
Then Tears are real, and the Grief is true.
But if at each Affize, and Term, we try
A thousand Rafcals of as deep a Dye;
If Men for fwear the Deeds and Bonds they draw,
Tho' Sign'd with all Formality of Law,
And tho' the Writing and the Seal proclaim
The barefac'd Perjury, and fix the Shame;
Go, Fortune's Darling, nor expect to bear
The common Lot, but to avoid thy Share!
Heav'n's Favourite Thou, for better Fates defign'd,
Than we the Dregs and Rubbish of Mankind!
XVI.
This petty Sinner fcarce deferves thy Rage,
Compar'd with the great Villains of the Age.
Here hir'd Affaflins kill; there, Sulphur thrown,
By treacherous Hands, deftroys the frighted Town.
Bold Sacrilege, invading Things Divine,
Breaks through a Temple, or deftroys a Shrine,
The Reverend Goblets, and the ancient Plate,
Those grateful Prefents of a Conqu❜ring State,
Or pious King; or if the Shrine be poor,
The Image fpoils: Nor is the God fecure.
One feizes Neptune's Beard, one Caftor's Crown,
Or Jove himself, and melts the Thund'rer down.
Here Pois'ners murder, there the impious Son,
With whom a guiltless 1 Ape is doom'd to drown,
Prevents old Age, and with a hafly Blow
Cuts down his Sire, and quickens Fates too flow.
Yet what are thefe to thofe vaft heaps of Crimes,
Which make the greatest Business of our Times,
12 The Villain that kill'd | Serpent, and an Ape, and his Father, was to be put into thrown into the Sea.
a Bag, with a Dog, a Cock, a
Which Terms prolong, and which from Morn to Night Amaze the Juries, and the Judges fright?
Attend the Court, and thou fhalt briefly find In that one Place the Manners of Mankind; Hear the Indictments, then return again, Call thy felf Wretch, and if thou dar'ft, complain. Whom midft the Alps do hanging Throats furprize? Who ftares in Germany at watchet Eyes? Or who in Meroë, when the Breast reclin'd, Hangs o'er the Shoulder to the Child behind, And bigger than the Boy? For Wonder's loft When Things grow common, and are found in moft. When Cranes invade, his little Sword and Shield The Pigmy takes, and streight attends the Field: The Fight's foon o'er; the Cranes defcend, and bear The fprawling Warriors through the liquid Air: Now here fhou'd fuch a Fight appear to view, All Men wou'd split, the Sight wou'd please whilft new: There none's concern'd, where every day they fight, And not one Warrior is a Foot in height.
But fhall the Villain 'fcape? Shall Perjury
Grow Rich and Safe, and shall the Cheat be free ?
Hadft thou full Power (Rage asks no more) to kill,
Or measure out his Torments by thy Will;
Yet what couldft thou, Tormentor, hope to gain?
Thy Lofs continues, unrepaid by Pain;
Inglorious Comfort thou shalt poorly meet,
From his mean Blood. But, ob! Revenge is fweet.
Thus think the Crowd, who, eager to engage,
Take quickly fire, and kindle into Rage;
Who ne'er confider, but without a Pause,
Make up in Paffion what they want in Cause.
Not fo mild 13 Thales nor Chryfippus thought,
Nor that Good Man, who drank the Pois'nous Draught
13 Philofophers of great Credit and Worth.
With Mind ferene; and cou'd not wifh to fee
His Vile Accufer drink as deep as He:
Exalted Socrates! Divinely brave!
Injur'd he fell, and dying he Forgave,
Too Noble for Revenge; which still we find
The weakest Frailty of a feeble Mind;
Degenerous Paffion, and for Man too base,
It feats its Empire in the Female Race,
There rages; and, to make its Blow secure,
Puts Flatt'ry on, until the Aim be sure.
But why muft those be thought to 'Scape, that feel
Thofe Rods of Scorpions, and those Whips of Steel
Which Confcience shakes, when the with Rage controuls,
And spreads amazing Terrors through their Souls?
Not sharp Revenge, not Hell it felf can find
A fiercer Torment than a Guilty Mind,
Which Day and Night doth dreadfully accuse,
Condemns the Wretch, and still the Charge renews.
XIX.
A trufted Spartan was inclin'd to Cheat,
(The Coin look'd lovely, and the Bag was great,
Secret the Truft) and with an Oath defend
The Prize, and baffle his deluded Friend:
But weak in Sin, and of the Gods afraid,
And not well vers'd in the forswearing Trade,
He goes to Delphos; humbly begs Advice,
And thus the Priestess by Command replies:
Expect fure Vengeance by the Gods decreed,
To punish Thoughts, not yet improv'd to Deed.
At this he started, and forbore to swear,
Not out of Conscience of the Sin, but Fear.
Yet Plagues enfu'd, and the contagious Sin
Destroy'd himself, and ruin'd all his Kin.
Thus fuffer'd He for the imperfect Will
To fin, and bare Defign of doing Ill':
For he that but conceives a Crime in Thought,
Contracts the Danger of an Actual Fault:
Then what muft he expect that fill proceeds
To finish Sin, and work up Thoughts to Deeds?
XX.
Perpetual Anguish fills his anxious Breast,
Not ftopt by Bufinefs, nor compos'd by Reft:
No Mufick chears him, and no Feaft can please,
He fits like difcontented 14 Damocles,
When by the sportive Tyrant wifely fhown
The dangerous Pleasures of a flatter'd Throne.
Sleep flies the Wretch; or when his Care's opprek,
And his toss'd Limbs are weary'd into Reft,
Then Dreams invade, the injur'd Gods appear,
All arm'd with Thunder, and awake his Fear.
What frights him moft, in a Gigantick fize,
Thy Jacred Image flashes in his Eyes:
These shake his Soul, and, as they boldly press,
Bring out his Crimes; and force him to confess.
This Wretch will start at ev'ry Flash that flies,
Grow pale at the first Murmur of the Skies,
Ere Clouds are form'd, and Thunder roars, afraid;
And Epicurus can afford no Aid,
His Notions fail: And the deftructive Flame
Commiffion'd falls, not thrown by Chance, but Aim:
One Clap is paft, and now the Skies are clear,
A fhort Reprieve, but to increase his Fear:
Whilft Arms Divine, revenging Crimes below,
Are gathering up to give the greater Blow.
14 Damocles having very | Entertainment; but just over much extoll'd the Happiness of his Head hung a Sword by a Kings, in the prefence of Dio- Hair, with the Point downnyfius King of Syracuse; Dio- ward. nyfius invited him to Dinner, plac'd him in a rich Throne, and gave him a very fplendid 21
Is A Philofopher who thought all things were by Chance,
|