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No sense of sufferings yet to come
Can now their prudence move: But see! where all around them wait The ministers of female fate,
'An artful, perjur’d, cruel train ; Ah! shew them where in ambush stand To seize their prey, the faithless band
Of false deceitful men!
These shall the luft of gaming wear,
That harpy of the mind,
That follows close behind :
That gnaws bright Hymen's golden chain, ni Who opens wide the fatal gate, For fad distrust and ruthless hate,
And sorrow's pallid train.
Ambition this shall tempt to fix
Her hopes on something high,
Her peace and liberty.
That scowls on those it us’d to greet,
With never-resting feet.
And lo! where in the vale of years
A Grisly tribe are seen ; Fancy's pale family of fears,
More hideous than their queen :
Struck with th’imaginary crew
Which artless nature never knew
These aid from quacks, and cordials beg,
To each her suff'rings : all must grieve,
And pour a filent groan,
But ill the voice of truth severe
Whose joy in mirth and revels lies !
Thought would destroy this paradise.
?Tis folly to be wise.