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Show H2 T 0 E M S. Sure they would beg a Period of their breath, And what w e call their Birth would count their Death. Mankind is mad \ for none can live alone, Becaufe their Joys ftand by comparifon : Arfd yet they quarrel at Society, And ftrive to kill they know not whom, nor why. W e all live by Miftake, delight in Dreams, Loft to our felves, and dwelling in Extreams \ Rejecting what we have, though ne'er fo good, And prizing what w e never underftood. Compar d t' our boifterous inconftancy Tempefts are calm, and Difcords harmony. Hence w e reverfe,the World, an4 yet dot find bnA The God that made can hardly pleafe our Mind. *Q W e live by chance and flip into Events} Have all of Beafts except their Innocence. The Soul, which no man's pow'r can reach, a thing That makes each W o m a n Man, each M a n a King, Doth fo rrjiich lofe, and from its height fo fell,. That fome qwtend to have no Soul at all. ;Tis either not pbferv'd, or at the beft By Paffion fought withal, by Sin depreft. Freedom of Will (^God's Image) is forgot > And if w e know it, w e improve it not. Our Thoug^ts^, though nothing can be more our own* Are ftill ungraded,, vet/y feldom known. Time 'fcapes our hands as Water m a Sieve, W e come to die ere w e begin to live. Truth, the rnoft fumble an<4 noble prize, Food of our Spirits, yet neglected lies. Errour and Shadows are our choice, and w< O w e our perdition to our o w n decree. If we fearch Truth, w e make it more And when it fhuies, cajmot the light: em For moft men now, w h o plod, and eat, and chink, Have nothing lefs their bus nefs than to think And thofe few that enquire, bow fmall a fhare j O f Truth they find^ how dark their Notions are! That V i •POEMS: „3 that ferious Evenneft that calms die Breft, And in a Tempeft can bcftow a Reft W e either not attempt, or elfe decline By ev'ry trifle fnatch'd from our defign. (Others he muft in his deceits involve, W h o is not true unto his o w n Refolve!) W e govern not our felves, but loofo the Reins Counting our Bondage to a thoufaiid Chains; ' And with as many Slaveries, content As there are Tyrants ready to torment W e live upon a Rack extended ftill To one Extreme or both, but always ill. For fince our Fortune is not underftood W e fuffer lefs from bad than from the good. The Sting is better dreft and longer lafts, As Surfeits are more dangerous than Fafts. And to complete the mifery to us ? W e fee Extremes are ftill contiguous. And as w e run fo faft from what w e hate, Like Squibs on Ropes, to know no middle ftate; So outward ftorms ftrength ned by us, w e find Our Fortune as difordered as our Mind. But that's excus'd by this, it doth its part; A trechrous World befits a trech'rous Heart. All ill's our own, the outward ftorms w e loath Receive from us their Birth, their Sting, or both* And that our Vanity be paft a doubt, 'Tis one new Vanity to find it out. H aPPX ^rc they to w h o m God gives a Grave *Vnd from themfel ves as from his wrath doth fave. Tis good not to be born; but if w e muft, The next good is, foon to return to duft. When th uncag'd Soul fled to Eternity Shall reft ancl live, and fing, and love, and fee. Here w e but crawl and grovel, play and cry; Are firft our own, then others, enemy : But there fhall be defac d both ftain and fcore, For Time, and Death, and Sin fhall be no more. Q. The |