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If while he live this Thought moleft his Head,
He waftes his Days in idle Grief, nor can
Diftinguish 'twixt the Body and the Man;
But thinks himself can ftill himself furvive,
And what when dead he feels not, feels alive.
Then he repines that he was born to die,
Nor knows in Death there is no other HE,
No living HE remains his Grief to vent,
And o'er his fenfelefs Carcafs to lament.
But to be fnatch'd from all thy houfhold Joys,
From thy chafte Wife and thy dear pratling Boys!
Ah Wretch, thou cry'ft, ah! miferable me!
One woful Day fweeps Children, Friends, and Wife,
And all the brittle Bleffings of my Life!

Add one thing more, and all thou fay'ft is true;
Thy Want and Wish of them is vanish'd too:
Which, well confider'd, were a quick Relief
To all thy vain imaginary Grief:

For thou shalt fleep, and never wake again,
And quitting Life fhalt quit thy living Pain;
But we, thy Friends, fhall all thofe Sorrows find,
Which in forgetful Death thou leav'ft behind,

No Time fhall dry our Tears, nor drive thee from our Mind.
The worst that can befall thee, measur'd right,

Is a found Slumber, and a long Good-night.

Yet thus the Fools, who would be thought the Wits,
Difturb their Mirth with melancholy Fits;

When Healths go round, and kindly Brimmers flow,
Till the fresh Garlands on their Foreheads glow,
They whine, and cry, Let us make Hafte to live,
Short are the Joys that human Life can give.
Eternal Preachers! who corrupt the Draught,
And pall the God who never thinks with Thought.
Even in Sleep the Body, wrapt in Eafe,
Supinely lies, as in the peaceful Grave,
And wanting nothing, nothing can it crave:
Were that found Sleep eternal, it were Death.
Then Death to us, and Death's Anxiety,

Is lefs than nothing, if a lefs could be;
For then our Atoms, which in Order lay,

Are fcatter'd from their Heap, and puff'd away,

And never can return into their Place,

When once the Paufe of Life has left an empty Space.
And laft, fuppofe great Nature's Voice fhould call

To thee, or me, or any of us all;

What do'st thou mean, ungrateful Wretch, thou vain,
Thou mortal thing, thus idly to complain,

And

And figh and fob, that thou shalt be no more?
For if thy Life were pleasant heretofore,
If all the bounteous Bleffings I could give,
Thou hast enjoy'd, if thou haft known to live,
And Pleasure not leak'd thro' thee like a Sieve,

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Why do'ft thou not give Thanks as at a plenteous Feast, Cram'd to the Throat with Life, and rife, and take thy Reft? But if my Bleffings thou haft thrown away,

If indigefted Joys pafs'd thro', and would not stay,

Why do'st thou wish for more to fquander ftill?
If Life be grown a Load, a real Ill,

And I would all thy Cares and Labours end,

Lay down thy Burden, Fool, and know thy Friend.
To please thee I have empty'd all my Store,
I can invent, and can fupply no more,

But run the Round again, the Round I ran before.
Suppofe thou art not broken yet with Years,
Yet ftill the felf-fame Scene of Things appears,
And would be ever, could'ft thou ever live;

For Life is ftill but Life, there's Nothing new to give.
But if a Wretch, a Man opprefs'd by Fate,
Should beg of Nature to prolong his Date;
She fpeaks aloud to him with more Disdain,
Be ftill thou Martyr Fool, thou covetous of Pain.
But if an old decrepid Sot lament;

What thou, fhe cries, who haft out-liv'd Content?
Doft thou complain, who haft enjoy'd my Store?
Now leave thofe Joys, unfuiting to thy Age,
To a fresh Comer, and refign the Stage.
Is Nature to be blam'd if thus fhe chide?
What can we plead against so just a Bill?
We stand convicted, and our Caufe goes ill.
For Life is not confin'd to him or thee;

'Tis given to all for Ufe, to none for Property.

Therefore when Thoughts of Death difturb thy Head, Confider, Ancus, great and good, is dead:

Ancus, thy Better far, was born to dye;

And thou, doft thou bewail Mortality?

So many Monarchs, with their mighty State,

Who rul'd the World, were over-rul'd by Fate.
The Founders of invented Arts are loft,

And Wits, who made Eternity their Boaft.

Where now is Homer, who poffefs'd the Throne ?

Th'immortal Work remains, the mortal Author's gone.
And thou, doft thou difdain to yield thy Breath,
Whose very Life is little more than Death?

}

More

More than one Half by lazy Sleep poffefs'd,
And when awake, thy Soul but nods at beft,

(Dryd. Luc.

Day-Dreams, and fickly Thoughts revolving in thy Breaft.
Ah! Why

Should Man, when Nature calls, not chufe to dye,
Rather than ftretch the Span of Life, to find
Such Ills as Fate has wifely caft behind,

For those to feel, whom fond Defire to live
Makes covetous of more than Life can give ?
Each has his Share of Good, and when 'tis gone,

The Gueft, tho' hungry, cannot rife too foon. Dr. Sig, & Guisc. 'Tis not the Stoick's Leffon, got by Rote,

The Pomp of Words, and Pedant Differtation,
That can fupport thee in that Hour of Terrour :
Books have taught Cowards to talk nobly of it;
But when the Tryal comes, they start and ftand aghaft.
Temple of Death.
(Row. Fair Pen.
In thofe cold Climates, where the Sun appears
Unwillingly, and hides his Face in Tears;
A dreadful Vale lies in a defart Isle,
On which indulgent Heav'n did never fmile.
There a thick Grove of aged Cypress-Trees,
Which none without an awful Horrour fees,
Into its wither'd Arms, depriv'd of Leaves,
Whole Flocks of ill-prefaging Birds receives:
Poifons are all the Plants the Soil will bear,
And Winter is the only Seafon there.

Millions of Graves cover the spacious Field,
And Springs of Blood a thoufand Rivers yield;
Whofe Streams opprefs'd with Carcaffes and Bones,
Inftead of gentle Murmurs, pour forth Groans.
Within this Vale a famous Temple ftands,
Old as the World it felf, which it commands:
Round is its Figure, and Four Iron Gates
Divide Mankind. By order of the Fates,

There come in Crouds, doom'd to one common Grave,
The Young, the Old, the Monarch, and the Slave.
Old Age, and Pains, which Mankind moft deplores,

Are faithful Keepers of thofe facred Doors ;
All clad in mournful Blacks, which alfo load
The facred Walls of this obfcure Abode;
And Tapers of a pitchy Subftance made,
With Clouds of Smoak encrease the difmal Shade.
A Monster void of Reafon, and of Sight,
The Goddess is who fways this Realm of Night.
Her Power extends o'er all Things that have Breath,
A cruel Tyrant, and her Name is Death.

Norm

DYING.

There Life gave Way, and the laft rofy Breath Went in that Sigh. Death like a brutal Victor, Already enter'd, with rude Hafte defaces The lovely Frame he'as mafter'd; fee how foon Those starry Eyes have loft their Light and Luftre. (Row. Amb. Step,

He fell, and deadly pale,

Groan'd out his Soul, with gufhing Blood effus'd.
Grov❜ling in Death he murmur'd on the Ground,
And pour'd his Life out from the gaping Wound.
He fell, and fhiv'ring gafp'd his latest Breath,
And fainting funk into the Arms of Death.

Biting the Ground he lies,

Milt.

Blac.

Blac.

And Death's unwelcom Shade o'er-fpreads his Eyes.
Gafping he lay, and from a griefly Wound

Blac.

Blac.

Blac.

Blac.

The crimson Life ebb'd out upon the Ground.
Shiv'ring Death crept cold along his Veins.
A gloomy Night o'erwhelms his dying Eyes,
And his difdainful Soul from his pale Bofom flies.
He ftaggars round, his Eye-balls roll in Death,
And with fhort Sobs he gafps away his Breath

A hov'ring Mift came fwimming o'er his Sight,
And feal'd his Eyes in everlasting Night.

Dryd. Virg.

Dryd. Virg.

(Virg.

The ling'ring Soul th'unwelcom Doom receives, And murm'ring with Difdain the beauteous Body leaves. Staff. He fetch'd his Breath in Sobs and double Sighs, And often ftrove, but ftrove in vain, to rife : His Eyes, defrauded of their vital Ray, Labour for Life, and catch the flying Day: From the wide Wound a purple River flows, And Life departs in ftrong convulfive Throes. Thrice Dido try'd to raife her drooping Head, And fainting thrice, fell grov`ling on the Bed; Thrice op'd her heavy Eyes, and fought the Light, And having found it, ficken'd at the Sight; And clos'd her Lids at laft in endless Night.

The struggling Soul was loos'd, and Life diffolv'd in Air.

A gath'ring Mift o'erclouds her chearful Eyes,
And from her Cheeks the rofy Colour flies:

He swims before her Sight,
Inexorable Death, and claims his Right.
She ftaggers in her Seat with agonizing Pains;
Dying, her open'd Hand forfakes the Reins,
Short and more fhort fhe pants; by flow Degrees
Her Mind the Paffage from her Body frees:

Blac.

}

(Dryd. Virg.

She

She drops her Sword, fhe nods her plumy Creft, Her drooping Head declining on her Breaft:

In the laft Sigh her ftruggling Soul expires,

And murm'ring with Difdain to Stygian Sounds retires. Dr.Virg.
And Life at length forfook her heaving Heart,
Loath from fo fweet a Manfion to depart.

A deadly Cold has froze the Blood;

The pliant Limbs grow ftiff, and lofe their Ufe,
And all the animating Fire is quench'd.
Ev'n Beauty too is dead: An afhy Pale
Grows o'er the Rofes; the red Lips have loft
Their fragrant Hue, for want of that fweet Breath,
That blefs'd 'em with its Odours, as it pafs'd.

This was his laft: For Death came on amain,

And exercis'd below, his Iron Reign.

Then upward to the Seat of Life he goes;

Senfe fled before him; what he touch'd, he froze :
Yet could he not his clofing Eyes withdraw,

Tho' lefs and lefs of Emily he faw.

So, fpeechlefs for a little Space he lay,

Dryd. Virg.

Row. Tamerl.

Then grafp'd the Hand he held, and figh'd his Soul away Dryd. More fhe was faying, but Death rufh'd betwixt: (Pal. & Arc. She half pronounc'd your Name with her last Breath,

And bury'd half within her.

Dryd. All for Love.

Oh fhe is gone! the talking Soul is mute: She's hufh'd: No Voice, no Mufick now is heard: The Bow'r of Beauty is more ftill than Death. The Rofes fade; and the melodious Bird, That wak'd their Sweets, has left 'em now for ever. Lee Alex. She's out: The Damp of Death has quench'd her quite; Those spicy Doors, her Lips, are fhut, clofe lock'd, Which never Gale of Life shall open more.

He breaths fhort,

The Taper's spent, and this is his last Blaze.
His fnowy Neck reclines upon his Breaft,
Like a fair Flow'r by the keen Share opprefs'd:
Like a white Poppy finking on the Plain,
Whose heavy Head is over-charg'd with Rain.
Dying of Old Age.

Of no Distemper, of no Blaft he dy'd,
But fell, like Autumn Fruit, that mellow'd long;
Ev'n wonder'd at, because he dropt no fooner.
Fate feem'd to wind him up for Fourfcore Years,
Yet freshly ran he on Ten Winters more;
Till, like a Clock, worn out with eating Time,
The Wheels of weary Life at last stood still.

Lee Mithrid

Lee Caf. Borg.

Dryd. Virg.

Lee Oedip.
DE-

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