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A secret Sting remains within his mind,
The Tool is to his own cast offals kind;
He boasts no sense can after death remain,
Yet makes himself a part of life again;
As if some other He could feel the pain.
If, while he live, this Thought moleft his head,
What Wolf or Vulture fhall deyour me dead?
He wasts his days in idle grief, nor can
Distinguish ’twixt the Body and the Man;
But thinks himself can still himself survive:
And what when dead he feels not, feels alive.
Then he repines that he was born to die;
Nor knows in death there other He;
No living He remains his grief to vent,
And o’re his fenseless Carcass to lament.
If after death 'tis painful to be torn
By Birds and Beasts, then why not so to burn,
Or drench'd in floods of honey to be foak’d,
Imbalm’d to be at once presery'd and choak’d;
Or on an ai'ry Montain's top to lie,
Expos'd to cold and Heav'ns inclemency,
Or crowded in a Tomb, to be opprest
With Mommental Marble on thy breast?


But to be snatch'd from all thy houshold joys
From thy Chafte Wife, and thy dear prattling Boys,
Whose little Arms about thy Legs are cast,
And climbing for a Kiss prevent their Mother's hafte,
Inspiring secret pleasure thro' thy Breast,
All these shall be no more : Thy Friends opprest,
Thy Care and Courage now no more shall free:
Ah Wretch! thou cry'ft, ah! miserable me;
One woful day sweeps children, friends, and wife,
And all the brittle blessings of my life!
Add one thing more, and all thou say'st is true;
Thy want and wish of them is vanish’d too,
Which well consider'd, were a quick relief
To all thy vain imaginary grief.
For thou shalt sleep and never wake again,
And quitting life, shall quit thy living pain.
But we, thy friends, shall all those sorrows find,
Which in forgetful death thou leav'st behind,
No time shall dry our tears, nor drive thee from

our mind.
The worst that can befal thee, measur'd right,
Is a found slumber, and a long good night.
Yet thus the Fools, that would be thought the Wits,
Disturb 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 haste to live,
Short are the joys that human Life can give.
Eternal Preachers, that corrupt the draught,
And pall the God that never thinks, with thought;
Ideots with all that Thought, to whom the worst
Of death, is want of drink, and endless thirst,

fond desire as vain as these.
For ev’n in fleep, the body wrapt in ease;
Supinely lies, as in the peaceful grave,
And wanting nothing, nothing can it crave.
Were that sound Sleep eternal, it were Death;
Yet the first Atoms then; the feeds of breath,
Are moving near to sense, we do but shake
And rouze that sense; ảnd straight we are awake.
Then death to us, and death's anxiety
Is less than nothing, if a less cou'd be.
For then our Atoms, which in order lay,
Are scatter'd from their heap, and puffd away,
And never can return into their place,
When once the pause of Life has left an empty space.
And last, suppose Great Nature's Voice shou'd call
To thee, or me, or any of us all,



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What dost thou mean, ungrateful Wretch thou vain,
Thou mortal thing, thus idly to complain,
And sigh and fob, that thou shalt be no more?
For if thy Life were pleasant hcretofore,
If all the bounteous Blessings I cou'd give
Thou hast enjoy'd, if thou hast known to live,
And Pleasure nøt leak'd thro'thee like a Seive,
Why doft thou not give thanks,as at a plentcous feast
Cram’d to the throat with life; and rise and take thy
But if my Blessings thou haft thrown (reft?

If indigested joys pass’d thro' and wou'd not stay,
Why dost thou wish for more to squander still?
If Life be grown a load, a real ill,
And I wou'd all thy cares and labours end,
Lay down thy burden, Fool, and know thy Friend.
To please thee I have empti'd all

my .

store I can invent, and can supply no more; But run the round again, the round I ran before. Suppose thou art not broken yet with years, Yet still the felf-fame Scene of things appears, And wou'd be eyer, coud'ft thou ever live; For Life is still but Life, there's nothing new togive What can we plead against fo just a Bill? We stand convicted, and our cause goes ill.


But if a wretch, a man opprest by fate,
Shou'd beg of Nature to prolong his date,
She speaks aloud to him with more disdain,
Be still, thou Martyr fool, thou covetous of pain.
But if an old decrepit Sot lament;
What thou (She cryes) who hast outliy'd content!
Dost thou complain, who hast enjoy'd my store?
But this is still th'effect of wishing more!
Unsatisfy'd with all that Nature brings;
Loathing the present, liking absent things;
From hence it comes thy vain desires, at strife
Within themselves, have tantaliz'd thy Life,
And ghastly Death appear'd before thy sight,
E’rethou hadît gorg’dthy Soul & Senses with delight.
Now leave those joys unsuiting to thy age,
To a fresh Comer, and resign the Stage.
Is Nature to be blam'd if thus she chide?
No sure ; for 'tis her business to provide,
Against this ever changing Frames decay;
New things to come, and old to pass away.
One Being worn, another Being makes;
Chang'd but not loft ; for Nature gives and takes:
New Matter must be found for things to come, (doom.
And these must waste like those, and follow Nature's


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