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النشر الإلكتروني

EPISTLE IV.

HAPPINESS! our Being's End and Aim!

Good, Pleasure, Eafe, Content! whate'er thy Name:
That Something ftill, which prompts th' eternal Sigh,
For which we bear to live, nor fear to die ;
Which still fo near us, yet beyond us lies,

O'erlook'd, feen double, by the Fool,----and Wife.
Plant of Celestial Seed! if dropt below,
Say, in what mortal Soil thou deign'st to grow?
Fair-opening to fome Courts propitious fhine,
Or deep with Diamonds in the flaming Mine,
Twin'd with the Wreaths Parnaffian Laurels yeild,
Or reap'd in Iron Harvests of the Field?

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Where grows---where grows it not?---If vain our Toil,
We ought to blame the Culture, not the Soil:
Fix'd to no Spot is Happiness fincere ;

"Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where;

'Tis never to be bought, but always free,

And fled from Monarchs, Lelius! dwells with thee.

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Ask from the Learn'd the Way, the Learn'd are blind,
This bids to serve, and that to fhun Mankind :
Some place the Bliss in Action, fome in Ease,
Those call it Pleasure, and Contentment these :
Who thus define it, fay they more or less
Than this, that Happiness is Happiness?
One grants his Pleasure is but Reft from Pain;
One doubts of All, one owns ev'n Virtue vain.
Take Nature's Path, and mad Opinions leave,
All States can reach it, and all Heads conceive;
Obvious her Goods, in no Extreme they dwell,
There needs but thinking right, and meaning well! 30
And mourn our various Portions as we please,
Equal is common Senfe, and common Eafe.

Remember Man!" the universal Caufe
"Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral Laws ;",
And makes what Happiness we juftly call,
Subfift, not in the good of one, but all.
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There's

There's not a Bleffing Individuals find,
But fome way leans, and hearkens to the Kind.
No Bandit fierce, no Tyrant mad with Pride,
No cavern'd Hermit refts Self-fatisfy'd ;
Who moft to fhun, or hate Mankind pretend,
Seek an Admirer, or would fix a Friend.
Abstract what others feel, what others think,
All Pleasures ficken, and all Glories fink;
Each has his Share, and who would more obtain
Shall find the Pleafure pays not half the Pain.

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ORDER is Heav'ns firft Law; and this confefs'd,
Some are, and muft be, greater than the reft ;
More rich, more wife; but who infers from hence,
That such are happier, fhocks all common Sense.
Heav'n to Mankind impartial we confefs,
If all are equal in their Happiness :
But mutual Wants this Happiness increase;
All Nature's Difference keeps all Nature's Peace.
Condition, Circumftance, is not the Thing:
Bliss is the fame, in Subject, or in King;
In who obtain Defence, or who defend ;
In him who is, or him who finds a Friend.
Heav'n breathes thro' every Member of the Whole,
One common Bleffing, as one common Soul:
But Fortune's Gifts, if each alike poffefs'd,
And each were equal, muft not all contest?
If then to all Men Happiness was meant,
God in Externals could not place Content.
Fortune her Gifts may variously difpofe,
And these be call'd unhappy, happy those ;
But Heaven's juft Balance equal will appear,
While those are plac'd in Hope, and these in Fear :
Not prefent Good or Ill, the Joy or Curfe,
But future Views, of Better, or of Worfe.
Oh, Sons of Earth! attempt ye ftill to rife
By Mountains pil'd on Mountains, to the Skies?
Heav'n ftill with Laughter the vain Toil furveys,
And buries Madmen in the Heaps they raise.

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Know, all the Good that Individuals find,
Or God and Nature meant to meer Mankind,
Reason's whole Pleasures, all the Joys of Sense,
Lie in three Words, Health, Peace, and Competence.

But

But Health confifts with Temperance alone,
And Peace, fair Virtue ! Peace is all thy own;
The Gifts of Fortune Good or bad may gain;
But these less taste them, as they worse obtain.
Say, in Pursuit of Profit or Delight,

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Who rifque the moft, that take wrong Means, or right?
Of Vice or Virtue, whether bleft or curst,
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Which meets Contempt, or which Compaffion first?
Count all th' Advantage profperous Vice attains,
Tis but what Virtue flies from, and difdains ;
And grant the Bad what Happiness they would,
One they must want, which is, to pass for Good.

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Oh, blind to Truth, and God's whole Scheme below!

Who fancy Bliss to Vice, to Virtue Woe:
Who fees, and follows that great Scheme the beft,
Best knows his Bleffing, and will most be blest.
But Fools the Good alone unhappy call,
For Ills are Accidents that chance to All.
See FALKLAND falls, the Virtuous and the Juft!
See God-like TURENNE proftrate on the Duft!
See SIDNEY bleeds amid the martial Strife!
Was this their Virtue, or Contempt of Life?
Say, was it Virtue, more tho' Heav'n ne'er gave,
Lamented DIGBY! funk thee to the Grave?
Tell me, if Virtue made the Son expire,
Why, full of Days and Honour, lives the Sire?
Why drew Marseilles good Bishop purer Breath,

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When Nature ficken'd, and each Gale was Death?

Or why fo long (in Life if long can be)

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Lent Heav'n a Parent to the Poor and Me?
What makes all phyfical or moral Ill?
There deviates Nature, and here wanders Will.
God fends not Ill, 'tis Nature lets it fall,
Or Chance elcape, and Man improves it all.
We juft as wifely might of Heav'n complain,
That righteous Abel was deflroy'd by Cain,
As that the virtuous Son is ill at Eafe,
When his lewd Father gave the dire Disease.
Think we, like fome weak Prince,, th' eternal Cause,

Prone for his Fav'rites to reverse his Laws?
Shall burning Ætna, if a Sage requires,

Forget to thunder, and recal her Fires?

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On Air or Sea new Motions be impress'd,
O blameless Bethel to relieve thy Breaft?
When the loose Mountain trembles from on high,
Shall Gravitation ceafe, if you go by?
Or fome old Temple nodding to it's Fall,
For Chartres Head referve the hanging Wall?
But fill this World (fo fitted for the Knave)
Contents us not. A better fhall we have?
A Kingdom of the Just then let it be;
But first confider how those Just agree.
The Good muft merit God's peculiar Care;
But who, but God, can tell us who they are?
One thinks on Calvin God's own Spirit fell,
Another deems him Inftrument of Hell;
If Calvin feel Heav'ns Bleffing, or it's Rod,
This cries there is, and that, there is no God.
What fhocks one Part, will edify the rest,
Nor with one System can they all be bleft.
Give each a System, all must be at Strife;
What different Systems for a Man and Wife!
'The very best will varioufly incline,

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And what rewards your Virtue punish mine.
"Whatever is, is right."----This World 'tis true,
Was made for Cafar;---bur for Titus too:
And which more bleft? who chain'd his Country, fay,
Or he, whofe Virtne figh'd to lose a Day?

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"But fometimes Virtue ftarves, while Vice is fed. What then? is the Reward of Virtue, Bread ? That, Vice may merit? 'tis the Price of Toil: The Knave deferves it, when he tills the Soil; The Knave deferves it, when he tempts the Main, Where Madness fights, for Tyrants, or for Gain. The good Man may be weak, be indolent, Nor is his Claim to Plenty, but Content. But

grant him Riches, your Demand is o'er ; "No----fhall the Good want Health, the Good want Pow'r ??

And Health and Pow'r, and ev'ry earthly Thing:

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Why bounded Pow'r? why private? why no King?" Nay, why external for internal giv'n,

Why is not Man a God, and Earth a Heav'n?

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Who ask and reafon thus, will scarce conceive
God gives enough, while he has more to give:
Immenfe the Pow'r, immense were the Demand;
Say, at what Part of Nature will they stand?
What nothing early gives, or can destroy,
The Soul's calm Sun-fhine, and the Heart-felt Joy,
Is Virtues Prize: A better would you fix,
And give Humility a Coach and Six ¿
Juftice a Conq'rors Sword, or Truth a Gown,
Or publick Spirit, its great Cure, a Crown;
Rewards that either would to Virtue bring
No Joy, or be deftructive of the Thing.
How oft by thefe at Sixty are undone,
The Virtues of a Saint at Twenty-one!

For Riches, can they give but to the Juft,
His own Contentment, or another's Truft?
Judges and Senates have been bought for Gold,
Efteem and Love were never to be fold.

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O Fool! to think God hates the worthy Mind,
The Lover, and the Love of Human-kind,

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Whofe Life is healthful, and whose Conscience clear; Because he wants a thousand Pounds a Year!

Honour and Shame from no Condition rise; Act well your Part, there all the Honour lies. Fortune in Men has fome fmall Diff'rence made, 185 One flaunts in Rags, one flutters in Brocade : The Cobler apron'd, and the Parfon gown'd, The Friar hooded, and the Monarch crown'd. "What differ more (you cry) than Crown and Cowl ?” I'll tell you, Friend; a wife Man and a Fool. You'll find, if once the Monarch acts the Monk, Or Courtier like, the Person will be drunk : Worth makes the Man, and Want of it the Fellow; The reft, is all but Leather, or Prunella.

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Stuck o'er with Titles, and hung round with Strings, That thou may'ft be, by Kings, or Whores of Kings. 196 Thy boasted Blood, a thousand Years or fo,

May from Lucretia to Lucretia flow:

But by your Father's Worth, if yours you rate,
Count me those only who are good and great.
Go! if your ancient, but ignoble Blood,

Has

crept thro' Scoundrels ever fince the Flood;

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