Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone

As tragical, as others at his own.

He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score,
Then kill a conftable, and drink five more;

But he can draw a pattern, make a tart,
And has the ladies etiquette by heart.

Go, fool; and, arm in arm with Clodio, plead
Your caufe before a bar you little dread;

But know, the law that bids the drunkard die Is far too just to pass the trifler by.

Both baby-featur'd, and of infant fize,

View'd from a distance, and with heedlefs eyes,

Folly and innocence are fo alike,

The diff'rence, though effential, fails to ftrike. Yet folly ever has a vacant ftare,

A fimp'ring count'nance, and a trifling air;

But innocence, fedate, ferene, erect,

Delights us, by engaging our refpect.

Man, nature's gueft by invitation fweet,
Receives from her both appetite and treat;

1

But, if he play the glutton and exceed,

His benefactress blushes at the deed.

For nature, nice, as lib'ral to dispense,

Made nothing but a brute the flave of sense.

Daniel ate pulse by choice-example rare!

Heav'n blefs'd the youth, and made him fresh and fair.

Gorgonius fits, abdominous and wan,

Like a fat fquab upon a Chinese fan:
He fnuffs far off th' anticipated joy;

Turtle and ven'fon all his thoughts employ;

Prepares for meals as jockies take a sweat,

Oh, naufeous!an emetic for a whet!

Will Providence o'erlook the wafted good?
Temperance were no virtue if he could.

That pleasures, therefore, or what fuch we call,

Are hurtful, is a truth confess'd by all.

And fome, that seem to threaten virtue less,
Still hurtful, in th' abuse, or by th' excess.
Is man then only for his torment plac'd
The centre of delights he may not taste?

Like fabled Tantalus, condemn'd to hear
The precious ftream ftill purling in his ear,
Lip-deep in what he longs for, and yet curst
With prohibition and perpetual thirst?
No, wrangler-deftitute of fhame and sense,
The precept, that enjoins him abftinence,
Forbids him none but the licentious joy,
Whose fruit, though fair, tempts only to destroy.
Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid

In every bofom where her nest is made,

Hatch'd by the beams of truth, denies him reft,
And proves a raging fcorpion in his breast.
No pleasure? Are domeftic comforts dead?
Are all the nameless sweets of friendship fled?

Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame,
Good fenfe, good health, good confcience, 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 starv'd at your inhofpitable door?

Or, if yourself, too fcantily fupplied,

Need help, let honeft industry provide.
(Earn, if you want; if you abound, imparte
These both are pleasures to the feeling heart,
No pleasure? Has fome fickly eastern waste
Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast?
Can British paradife no scenes afford
To please her fated and indiff'rent lord?
Are sweet philofophy'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 stye.
Delights like these, ye fenfual and profane,
Ye are bid, begg'd, befought to entertain;
Call'd to thefe crystal ftreams, do ye turn off,
Obscene, to fwill and fwallow at a trough?
Envy the beaft, then, on whom heav'n bestows
Your pleafures, with no curfes 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 pow'rs, and mars their use;
Ambition, av'rice, and the luft of fame,

And woman, lovely woman, does the fame.
The heart, furrender'd to the ruling pow'r

Of fome ungovern'd paffion ev'ry hour,

Finds, by degrees, the truths that once bore fway,
And all their deep impreffions, wear away.

So coin grows fmooth, in traffic current pass'd,

Till Cæfar's image is effac'd at last.

The breach, though small at firft, foon op'ning wide,

In rushes folly with a full-moon tide.

Then welcome errors, of whatever size,

To juftify it by a thousand lies.

As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone,
And hides the ruin that it feeds upon;
So fophiftry cleaves clofe to, and protects,
Sin's rotten trunk, concealing its defects.
Mortals, whofe pleafures are their only care,
First wish to be impos'd on, and then are.