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Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame Good sense, good health, good conscience, and
good fame? All these belong to virtue, and all prove That virtue has a title to your love. Have you no touch of pity, that the poor Stand starved at your inhospitable door? Or if yourself, too scantily supplied, Need help, let honest industry provide. Earn, if you want; if you abound, impart: These both are pleasures to the feeling heart. No pleasure? Has some sickly eastern waste Sent us a wind parch us at a blast? Can British Paradise no scenes afford, To please her sated and indifferent lord? Are sweet philosophy's enjoyments run Quite to the lees? And has religion none? Brutes capable would tell you ’tis a lie, And judge you from the kennel and the sty. Delights like these, ye sensual and profane, Ye are bid, begg'd, besought to entertain; Call'd to these crystal streams, do ye turn off Obscene to swill and swallow at a trough? Envy the beast then, on whom Heaven bestows Your pleasures, with no curses in the close.
Pleasure admitted in undue degree Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free. "Tis not alone the grape's enticing juice Unnerves the moral powers, and mars their use; Ambition, avarice, and the lust of fame, And woman, lovely woman does the same. The heart, surrender'd to the ruling power Of some ungovern'd passion every hour, Finds by degrees the truths that once bore sway, And all their deep impressions, wear away;
So coin grows smooth, in traffic current pass'd, Till Cæsar's image is effaced at last.
The breach, though small at first, soon opening In rushes folly with a full-moon tide,
The sacred implement I now employ
Ye writers of what none with safety reads,
Caught in a delicate soft silken net
But the Muse, eagle-pinion'd, has in view
quarry more important still than you;
it on the morals of thy son;
Now, while the poison all high life pervades,
'Tis granted, and no plainer truth appears,
From school to Cam or Isis, and thence home; And thence with all convenient speed to Rome. With reverend tutor clad in habit lay, To tease for cash, and quarrel with all day; With memorandum-book for every town, And every post, and where the chaise broke down; His stock a few French phrases got by heart, With much to learn, but nothing to impart; The youth, obedient to his sire's commands, Sets off a wanderer into foreign lands. Surprised at all they meet, the gosling pair, With awkward gait, stretch'd neck, and silly stare,
Discover huge cathedrals. built with stone,
Ere long some bowing, smirking, smart abbé
as, when legible, were never read, But, being canker'd now and half worn out, Craze antiquarian brains with endless doubt; Some headless hero, or some Cæsar, shows Defective only in his Roman nose; Exhibits elevations, drawings, plans, Models of Herculanean pots and pans; And sells them medals, which, if neither rare Nor ancient, will be so, preserved with care.
Strange the recital! from whatever cause His great improvement and new light he draws, The squire, once bashful, is shamefaced no more, But teems with powers he never felt before; Whether increased momentum, and the force With which from clime to clime he sped his course (As axles sometimes kindle as they go), Chafed him, and brought dull nature to a glow; Or whether clearer skies and softer air, That make Italian flowers so sweet and fair, Freshening his lazy spirits as he ran, Unfolded genially and spread the man; Returning he proclaims by many a grace, By shrugs and strange contortions of his face,