He leaves to scan, from what mysterious cause Charybdis rages in th' Ionian wave; Whence those impetuous currents in the main Which neither oar nor sail can stem; and why The roughening deep expects the storm, as sure As red Orion mounts the shrouded Heaven.
In ancient times, when Rome with Athens vied For polish'd luxury and useful arts; All hot and reeking from th' Olympic strife, And warm Palestra, in the tepid bath Th' athletic youth relax'd their weary limbs. Soft oils bedew'd them, with the grateful pow'rs Of nard and cassia fraught, to soothe and heal The cherish'd nerves. Our less voluptuous clime Not much invites us to such arts as these. 'Tis not for those, whom gelid skies embrace, And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feels Such frequent bars from Eurus and the North; "Tis not for those to cultivate a skin
Too soft: or teach the recremental fume Too fast to crowd through such precarious ways. For through the small arterial mouths, that pierce In endless millions the close-woven skin, The baser fluids in a constant stream Escape, and viewless melt into the winds. While this eternal, this most copious waste Of blood, degenerates into vapid brine, Maintains its wonted measure, all the powers Of health befriend you, all the wheels of life With ease and pleasure move: but this restrain'd Or more or less, so more or less you feel The functions labor: from this fatal source What woes descend is never to be sung.
To take their numbers, were to count the sands That ride in whirlwind the parch'd Libyan air; Or waves that, when the blustering North embroils The Baltic, thunder on the German shore. Subject not then, by soft emollient arts, This grand expense, on which your fates depend, To every caprice of the sky; nor thwart The genius of your clime: for from the blood Least fickle rise the recremental steams, And least obnoxious to the styptic air, Which breathe through straiter and more callous
pores.
But now the hours and seasons when to toil From foreign themes recall my wandering song Some labor fasting, or but slightly fed To lull the grinding stomach's hungry rage. Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame, 'Tis wisely done for while the thirsty veins, Impatient of lean penury, devour The treasur'd oil, then is the happiest time To shake the lazy balsam from its cells. Now while the stomach from the full repast Subsides, but ere returning hunger gnaws, Ye leaner habits, give an hour to toil; And ye whom no luxuriancy of growth
The temper'd Scythian hence, half-naked treads His boundless snows, nor rues th' inclement Heaven; Oppresses yet, or threatens to oppress. And hence our painted ancestors defied The east; nor curs'd, like us, their fickle sky. The body, moulded by the clime, endures The equator heats or hyperborean frost : Except by habits foreign to its turn, Unwise you counteract its forming pow'r. Rude at the first, the winter shocks you less By long acquaintance: study then your sky, Form to its manners your obsequious frame, And learn to suffer what you cannot shun. Against the rigors of a damp cold heav'n To fortify their bodies, some frequent The gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids, I praise their dauntless heart: a frame so steel'd Dreads not the cough, nor those ungenial blasts That breathe the tertian or fell rheumatism; The nerves so temper'd never quit their tone, No chronic languors haunt such hardy breasts. But all things have their bounds; and he who
makes
By daily use the kindest regimen Essential to his health, should never mix With human kind, nor art nor trade pursue.
He not the safe vicissitudes of life Without some shock endures; ill-fitted he To want the known, or bear unusual things. Besides, the powerful remedies of pain (Since pain in spite of all our care will come) Should never with your prosperous days of health Grow too familiar: for by frequent use
The strongest medicines lose their healing power, And even the surest poisons theirs to kill.
Let those who from the frozen Arctos reach Parch'd Mauritania, or the sultry west,
Or the wide flood that laves rich Indostan, Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave Untwist their stubborn pores; that full and free Th' evaporation through the soften'd skin May bear proportion to the swelling blood. So may they 'scape the fever's rapid flames; So feel untainted the hot breath of Hell. With us, the man of no complaint demands The warm ablution just enough to clear The sluices of the skin, enough to keep The body sacred from indecent soil. Still to be pure, ev'n did it not conduce (As much it does) to health, were greatly worth Your daily pains. "Tis this adorns the rich; The want of this is poverty's worst woe; With this external virtue, age maintains A decent grace; without it, youth and charms Are lothesome. This the venal graces know; So doubtless do your wives: for married sires, As well as lovers, still pretend to taste; Nor is it less (all prudent wives can tell) To lose a husband's than a lover's heart.
But from the recent meal no labors please, Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers Claim all the wandering spirits to a work Of strong and subtle toil, and great event: A work of time; and you may rue the day You hurried, with untimely exercise, A half-concocted chyle into the blood. The body overcharged with unctuous phlegm Much toil demands: the lean elastic less. While winter chills the blood and binds the veins, No labors are too hard: by those you 'scape The slow diseases of the torpid year; Endless to name; to one of which alone, To that which tears the nerves, the toil of slaves Is pleasure: Oh! from such inhuman pains May all be free who merit not the wheel! But from the burning Lion when the Sun Pours down his sultry wrath; now while the blood Too much already maddens in the veins, And all the finer fluids through the skin Explore their flight; me, near the cool cascade Reclin'd, or saunt'ring in the lofty grove, No needless slight occasion should engage
To pant and sweat beneath the fiery noon. Now the fresh morn alone and mellow eve To shady walks and active rural sports Invite. But, while the chilling dews descend, May nothing tempt you to the cold embrace Of humid skies; though 'tis no vulgar joy To trace the horrors of the solemn wood, While the soft evening saddens into night: Though the sweet poet of the vernal groves Melts all the night in strains of am'rous woe.
The shades descend, and midnight o'er the world Expands her sable wings. Great Nature droops Through all her works. Now happy he whose toil Has o'er his languid powerless limbs diffus'd A pleasing lassitude: he not in vain Invokes the gentle deity of dreams. His powers the most voluptuously dissolve In soft repose: on him the balmy dews Of sleep with double nutriment descend. But would you sweetly waste the blank of night In deep oblivion; or on Fancy's wings Visit the paradise of happy dreams, And waken cheerful as the lively morn; Oppress not nature sinking down to rest With feasts too late, too solid, or too full: But be the first concoction half-matur'd Ere you to mighty indolence resign Your passive faculties. He from the toils And troubles of the day to heavier toil Retires, whom trembling from the tower that rocks Amid the clouds, or Calpe's hideous height, The busy demons hurl; or in the main O'erwhelm; or bury struggling under ground. Not all a monarch's luxury the woes
O shame! O pity! nipt with pale quadrille, And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies! By toil subdu'd, the warrior and the hind Sleep fast and deep: their active functions soon With generous streams the subtle tubes supply; And soon the tonic irritable nerves Feel the fresh impulse and awake the soul. The sons of indolence with long repose Grow torpid; and, with slowest Lethe drunk, Feebly and ling'ringly return to life, Blunt every sense and powerless every limb. Ye, prone to sleep (whom sleeping most annoys) On the hard mattress or elastic couch Extend your limbs, and wean yourselves from sloth Nor grudge the lean projector, of dry brain And springy nerves, the blandishments of down: Nor envy while the buried Bacchanal Exhales his surfeit in prolixer dreams.
He without riot, in the balmy feast Of life, the wants of nature has supplied, Who rises, cool, serene, and full of soul. But pliant nature more or less demands, As custom forms her; and all sudden change She hates of habit, even from bad to good. If faults in life, or new emergencies, From habits urge you by long time confirm'd, Slow may the change arrive, and stage by stage; Slow as the shadow o'er the dial moves, Slow as the stealing progress of the year.
Can counterpoise of that most wretched man, Whose nights are shaken with the frantic fits Of wild Orestes; whose delirious brain, Stung by the furies, works with poison'd thought; While pale and monstrous painting shocks the soul; And mangled consciousness bemoans itself For ever torn; and chaos floating round.
Observe the circling year. How unperceiv'd Her seasons change! Behold! by slow degrees, Stern Winter tam'd into a ruder Spring; The ripen'd Spring a milder Summer's glows; The parting Summer sheds Pomona's store, And aged Autumn brews the winter storm. Slow as they come, these changes come not void Of mortal shocks: the cold and torrid reigns, The two great periods of the important year, Are in their first approaches seldom safe; Funereal Autumn all the sickly dread; And the black fates deform the lovely Spring.
Early to borrow Muscovy's warm spoils,
What dreams presage, what dangers these or those He well advis'd who taught our wiser sires Portend to sanity, though prudent seers Reveal'd of old, and men of deathless fame, We would not to the superstitious mind Suggest new throbs, new vanities of fear. "Tis ours to teach you from the peaceful night To banish omens and all restless woes.
Ere the first frost has touch'd the tender blade; And late resign them, though the wanton Spring Should deck her charms with all her sister's rays. For while the effluence of the skin maintains Its native measure, the pleuritic Spring Glides harmless by; and Autumn, sick to death With sallow quartans, no contagion breathes.
I in prophetic numbers could unfold The omens of the year: what seasons teem With what diseases; what the humid South Prepares, and what the demon of the East: But you perhaps refuse the tedious song. Besides, whatever plagues in heat, or cold, Or drought, or moisture dwell, they hurt not you, Skill'd to correct the vices of the sky, And taught already how to each extreme To bend your life. But should the public bane Infect you; or some trespass of your own, Or flaw of nature, hint mortality; Soon as a not unpleasing horror glides Along the spine, through all your torpid limbs; When first the head throbs, or the stomach feels A sickly load, a weary pain the loins ; Be Celsus call'd: the fates come rushing on; The rapid fates admit of no delay. While wilful you, and fatally secure, Expect to-morrow's more auspicious sun,
In study some protract the silent hours, Which others consecrate to mirth and wine; And sleep till noon, and hardly live till night. But surely this redeems not from the shades One hour of life. Nor does it nought avail What season you to drowsy Morpheus give Of th' ever-varying circle of the day; Or whether, through the tedious winter gloom, You tempt the midnight or the morning damps. The body, fresh and vigorous from repose, Defies the early fogs: but, by the toils Of wakeful day exhausted and unstrung, Weakly resists the night's unwholesome breath. The grand discharge, th' effusion of the skin, Slowly impair'd, the languid maladies Creep on, and through the sick'ning functions steal. As, when the chilling east invades the Spring, The delicate narcissus pines away
In hectic languor, and a slow disease Taints all the family of flowers, condemn'd To cruel heav'ns. But why, already prone To fade, should beauty cherish its own bane?
The growing pest, whose infancy was weak And easy vanquish'd, with triumphant sway O'erpow'rs your life. For want of timely care, Millions have died of medicable wounds.
Ah! in what perils is vain life engag'd! What slight neglects, what trivial faults destroy The hardiest frame! of indolence, of toil, We die; of want, of superfluity: The all-surrounding Heaven, the vital air, Is big with death. And, though the putrid South Be shut; though no convulsive agony Shake, from the deep foundations of the world, Th' imprison'd plagues; a secret venom oft Corrupts the air, the water, and the land. What livid deaths has sad Byzantium seen! How oft has Cairo, with a mother's woe, Wept o'er her slaughter'd sons and lonely streets! Even Albion, girt with less malignant skies, Albion the poison of the gods has drank, And felt the sting of monsters all her own.
Ere yet the fell Plantagenets had spent Their ancient rage, at Bosworth's purple field; While, for which tyrant England should receive, Her legions in incestuous murders mix'd, And daily horrors; till the fates were drunk With kindred blood by kindred hands profus'd: Another plague of more gigantic arm Arose, a monster, never known before, Rear'd from Cocytus its portentous head. This rapid fury not, like other pests, Pursu'd a gradual course, but in a day Rush'd as a storm o'er half the astonish'd isle, And strew'd with sudden carcasses the land.
Of many thousands, few untainted 'scap'd; Of those infected, fewer 'scap'd alive: Of those who liv'd, some felt a second blow; And whom the second spar'd, a third destroy'd. Frantic with fear, they sought by flight to shun The fierce contagion. O'er the mournful land Th' infected city pour'd her hurrying swarms: Rous'd by the flames that fir'd her seats around, Th' infected country rush'd into the town. Some, sad at home, and in the desert some, Abjur'd the fatal commerce of mankind: In vain where'er they fled, the fates pursu'd. Others, with hopes more specious, cross'd the main, To seek protection in far-distant skies;
But none they found. It seem'd the general air, From pole to pole, from Atlas to the east, Was then at enmity with English blood. For, but the race of England, all were safe In foreign climes; nor did this fury taste The foreign blood which England then contain'd. Where should they fly? The circumambient Heaven Involv'd them still; and every breeze was bane. Where find relief? The salutary art Was mute; and, startled at the new disease, In fearful whispers hopeless omens gave.
To Heaven with suppliant rites they sent their pray'rs; Heav'n heard them not. Of every hope depriv'd; Fatigued with vain resources; and subdu'd With woes resistless and enfeebling fear; Passive they sunk beneath the weighty blow. Nothing but lamentable sounds was heard, Nor aught was seen but ghastly views of death. Infectious horror ran from face to face, And pale despair. "Twas all the business then To tend the sick, and in their turns to die. In heaps they fell: and oft one bed, they say, The sick'ning, dying, and the dead contain'd.
Ye guardian gods, on whom the fates depend Of tottering Albion! ye eternal fires That lead through Heav'n the wandering year! ye
powers
That o'er th' encircling elements preside! May nothing worse than what this age has seen Arrive! Enough abroad, enough at home Has Albion bled. Here a distemper'd heaven Has thinn'd her cities, from those lofty cliffs That awe proud Gaul, to Thule's wintry reign; While in the west, beyond the Atlantic foam, Her bravest sons, keen for the fight, have died The death of cowards and of common men: Sunk void of wounds, and fall'n without renown.
First, through the shoulders, or whatever part Was seiz'd the first, a fervid vapor sprung. With rash combustion thence, the quivering spark Shot to the heart, and kindled all within; And soon the surface caught the spreading fires. Through all the yielded pores, the melted blood Gush'd out in smoky sweats; but nought assuag'd The torrid heat within, nor aught reliev'd The stomach's anguish. With incessant toil, Desperate of ease, impatient of their pain, They toss'd from side to side. In vain the stream Ran full and clear, they burnt and thirsted still. The restless arteries with rapid blood Beat strong and frequent. Thick and pantingly The breath was fetch'd, and with huge lab'rings heav'd.
At last a heavy pain oppress'd the head, A wild delirium came; their weeping friends Were strangers now, and this no home of theirs. Harass'd with toil on toil, the sinking powers Lay prostrate and o'erthrown; a ponderous sleep Wrapt all the senses up: they slept and died.
In some a gentle horror crept at first O'er all the limbs; the sluices of the skin Withheld their moisture, till by art provok'd The sweats o'erflow'd; but in a clammy tide: Now free and copious, now restrain'd and slow; Of tinctures various, as the temperature
THE PASSIONS.
THE choice of aliment, the choice of air, The use of toil, and all external things,
Had mix'd the blood; and rank with fetid steams: Already sung; it now remains to trace As if the pent-up humors by delay What good, what evil, from ourselves proceeds: Were grown more fell, more putrid, and malign. And how the subtle principle within Here lay their hopes (though little hope remain'd) With full effusion of perpetual sweats
To drive the venom out. And here the fates Were kind, that long they linger'd not in pain; For who surviv'd the Sun's diurnal race Rose from the dreary gates of Hell redeem'd: Some the sixth hour oppress'd, and some the third.
Inspires with health, or mines with strange decay The passive body. Ye poetic shades Who know the secrets of the world unseen, Assist my song! for, in a doubtful theme Engag'd, I wander through mysterious ways.
But from these views the weeping Muses turn, And other themes invite my wandering song.
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. Meanwhile 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 power Wields at its will the dull material world, And is the body's health or malady.
By its own toil the gross corporeal frame Fatigues, extenuates, or destroys itself. Nor less the labors of the mind corrode 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 through subtle tubes, The natural vital functions are perform'd. 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.
"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 vigor fails. Just so the mind, with various thought amus'd, 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,
But 'tis not thought, (for still the soul's em- With anxious flutterings wake the guiltless breast.
ploy'd)
Such phantoms pride in solitary scenes, Or fear, or 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, 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, 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, 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 Heaven 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, Appal the surest hour that life bestows. Serene, and master of yourself, prepare For what may come; and leave the rest to Heaven
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 hence Betrays each fretful motion of the mind.
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, 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 all heavy systems rest! Yet some there are, even of elastic parts, Whom strong and obstinate ambition leads Through all the rugged roads of barren lore, And gives to relish what their generous taste Would else refuse. But may not thirst of fame, Nor love of knowledge, urge you to fatigue With constant drudgery the liberal soul. Toy with your books; and, as the various fits Of humor seize you, from philosophy To fable shift; from serious Antonine To Rabelais' ravings, and from prose to song.
While reading pleases, but no longer, read; And read aloud resounding Homer's strain, And wield the thunder of Demosthenes. The chest so exercis'd improves its strength; And quick vibrations through the bowels drive The restless blood, which in unactive days Would loiter else through unelastic tubes. Deem it not trifling while I recommend What posture suits: to stand and sit by turns, As nature prompts, is best. But o'er your leaves
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To lean for ever, cramps the vital parts, And robs the fine machinery of its play.
'Tis the great art of life to manage well The restless mind. For ever on pursuit Of knowledge bent, it starves the grosser powers Quite unemploy'd, against its own repose It turns its fatal edge, and sharper pangs Than what the body knows imbitter life. Chiefly where solitude, sad nurse of care, 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'erspreads The cheerful face of Nature: Earth becomes A dreary desert, 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 teems Unknown in Hell. The prostrate soul beneath A load of huge imagination heaves; And all the horrors that the murderer feels
Oft from the body, by long ails mis-tun'd, These evils sprung, the most important health, 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 fault 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. O ye, whose souls relentless love has tam'd To soft distress, or friends untimely fall'n! 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, Nor to the rivulet's lonely moanings tune 3K 2
Your sad complaint. Go, seek the cheerful haunts Of men, and mingle with the bustling crowd; Lay schemes for wealth, or power, or fame, the wish
Of nobier minds, and push them night and day. 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
How to live happiest; how avoid the pains, 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. Though old, he still retain'd His manly sense, and energy of mind. 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, And laughing could instruct. Much had he read, Much more had seen: he studied from the life,
Where war grows hot; and, raging through the sky, The lofty trumpet swells the madd'ning 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, And in th' original perus'd mankind. Too weakly indolent to strive with pain,
Vers'd in the woes and vanities of life, He pitied man: and much he pitied those
Whom falsely-smiling fate has curs'd with means To dissipate their days in quest of joy.
And bravely by resisting conquer fate, Try Circe's arts; and in the tempting bowl Of poison'd nectar sweet oblivion swill. Struck by the powerful charm, the gloom dissolves" Our aim is happiness; 'tis yours, 'tis mine," In empty air, Elysium opens round; A pleasing frenzy 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, 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 thund'ring
He said; "'tis the pursuit of all that live: Yet few attain it, if 'twas e'er attain'd. But they the widest wander from the mark, Who through the flowery path of sauntering 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 brings To counterpoise itself, relentless fate
:
Forbids that we through gay voluptuous wilds Should ever roam: and were the fates more kind, Our narrow luxuries would soon grow stale: Were these exhaustless, nature would grow sick, And, cloy'd with pleasure, squeamishly complain That all is vanity, and life a dream. Let nature rest: be busy for yourself, And for your friend; be busy even in vain, Rather than tease her sated appetites. 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.
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'Tis not for mortals always to be blest. But him the least the dull or painful hours Of life oppress, whom sober sense conducts, And virtue, through this labyrinth we tread. Virtue and sense I mean not to disjoin; Virtue and sense are one; and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound. Virtue (for mere 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. 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; 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 gaudy gloss of fortune only strikes The vulgar eye; the suffrage of the wise, The praise that's worth ambition, is attain'd By sense alone, and dignity of mind.
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Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, Is the best gift of Heaven: a happiness That even above the smiles and frowns of fate Exalts great Nature's favorites; a wealth That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr'd. Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd;
stream, Swoln o'er its banks with sudden mountain rain, Sinks from its tumult to a silent brook; 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 more than might support three days. 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 despair Unmans your soul, as madd'ning Pentheus felt, When, baited round Cytheron'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 first Who dar'd to violate the virgin wine. Or on the fugitive champaign you pour A thousand curses, for to Heav'n it wrapt Your soul, to plunge you deeper in despair. Perhaps you rue even that diviner gift, The gay, serene, good-natur'd Burgundy, Or the fresh fragrant vintage of the Rhine: And wish that Heaven from mortals had withheld The grape, and all intoxicating bowls.
Besides, it wounds you sore to recollect What follies in your loose unguarded hour Escap'd. For 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 the grave. 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 left A sacred-cherish'd, sadly-pleasing name; A name still to be utter'd with a sigh. Your last ungrateful scene has quite effac'd All sense and memory of your former worth.
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