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Without the admirable Skill,
have well instructed me,
LETHARGY. A Sleep, dull as your laft, did you arreft, And allche Magazines of Life poffefs'd; No more the Blood its circling Course did run, But in the Veins like Ificies it hung ; No more the Heart, now void of quick’ning Heat, The tuneful March of viral Motion beat: Stiffness did into all the Sinews climb, And a short Death crept cold through ev'ry Limb. oldh.
LET HE See Hell. On the dark Barks where Lethe's lazy Deep Does its black Stores and drowsy Treasures keep, Rolls his flow Flood, and rocks the nodding Waves asleep.
L E VIA THAN. See Creation.
'Tis quick’ning Liberty that gives us Breath ; Her Absence, more than that of Life, is Death.
my Prison, Still I should long to leap the chrystal Walls. Dryd. Don Seb.
Oh Liberty! thou Goddess heav'nly bright,
What's Some-body or No-body?
As 'tis to be, or not to be.
Dream of a Shadow ! A Reflexion made
Is a more solid thing than thou.
Up betwixt two Eternities;
Yet canst not Wave or Wind sustain,
From the inaternal Tomb
Which nothing here can truly claim.
We call our dwelling Place;
We call one Step a Race. We grow at last by Custom to believe
That really we live; Whilst all these Shadows that for Things we take, (Coxel Are but the empty Dreams which in Death's Sleep we make.
When I consider Life, 'tis all a Cheat; Yer, tooid wich Hope, Men favour the Deceit: Trust on, and think To-morrow will repay; To-morrow's faller than the former Day ; Lies more, and while it says we shall be bless'd With some new Joys, cuts off what we posless'd. Strange Couz’nage! none would live past years again, Yet all hope Pleasure in what yet remain; And from the Dregs of Life chink to receive What the first sprightly Running could not give. I'm tir'd with waiting for this Chymick Gold, Which fools us young, and beggars us when old. Dryd. Auren,
For Life can never be sincerely blest, Heav'n punishes the Bad and proves the Beit. Dryd. Abfal. To-morrow, Tomorrow, and To-morrow,
(Achit. Creep in a stealing Pace from Day to Day, To the last Minute of revolving Time ; And all our Yesterdays have lighted Fools To their eternal Homes. Life's but a walking Shadow, a poor Player, That frets and struts his Hour upon a Stage And then is heard no more. It is a Tale Told by an Idiot, full of Sound and Fury, Signifying nothing,
Shak. Macb. Life is but Air, That yields a Passage to the whistling Sword, And closes when 'tis gone.
Dryd. Don Seb. Nor love thy Life, nor hate ; but what thou liv'st, Live well, how long or short permit to Heav'n.
Milt. : They live too long whọ Happiness out-live.
For Life and Death are things indifferent ;
'Tis not for Nothing that we Life pursue ;
Indulge, and to thy Genius freely give ; For not to live at Ease, is not to live : Death stalks behind thee, and each flying Hour Does some loose Remnant of thy Life devour. Live while thou liv'st, for Death will make us all A Name, a Nothing but an old Wife's Tale. Dryd. Pers. 'Tis Virtue's Work alone te feretch the narrow Span.Dryd. Virg.
Improperly we measure Life by Breath i They do not truly live who merit Death.
Stepx. Juv. Gods! Life's your Gift ; then season't with such Fate, That what you meant a Blessing prove no Weight. Let me to the remotest Part be whirl'd Of this your Play-thing, made in Hafte, the World: But grant me Quiet, Liberty, and Peace; By Day what's needful, and at Night soft Ease; The Friend I trust in, and the She I love : Then fix me, and if e'er I wish Remove, Make me as great, that's wretched, as you can; Set me in Pow'r, the wofull’ft State of Man ; To be by Fools milled, to Knaves a Prey. But make Life what I ask, or take't away.
Otw. Learn to live well, that thou may'st die fo too: To live and die is all we have to do.
Denb. LIGHT. See Creation: First-born of Chaos! who fo fair didft come
From the old Negro's darksom Womb !
Which, when it saw the lovely Child,
But ever ebb, and ever flow!
Her Joy, her Ornament, and Wealth!
Hail to thy Husband Heat and thee ! Thou the World's beauteous Bride, the lusty Bridegroom he. Say, from what golden Quivers of the Sky
Do all thy winged Arrows fly.
Swiftness and Pow'r by Birth are thine,
Thou, in the Moon's bright Chariot, proud and gay,
Dost thy bright Wood of Stars survey:
And all che Year dost with thee bring
The Sun's guilç Tent, for ever move ;
And still as thou in Pomp dost go,
all those Triumphs dost thou scorn
And with those living Spangles guild
And Sleep, the lazy Owl of Night,
Alham'd and fearful to appear,
Of painted Dreams, a busy Swarm.
At the first Op'ning of the Eye,
Creep conscious to their secret Rests :
Nature to chee does Rev'rence pay,
To shake his Wings, and rouse his Head;
And cloudy Care has ofren took
The Sun-shine melts away his Cold.
Blushes if thou be'st in the Place ;
To Darkness's Curtains he retires,
Out of the Morning's purple Bed,
Thy Choire of Birds about thee play,
Is but thy sev'ral Liveries.
Thou the rich Dye on them bestow'st ;
A Crown of studded Gold thou bear'ft.
The Virgin Lillies in their White,