Not tho' his monftrous Bulk had cover'd o'er

Nine fpreading Acres, or nine thousand more;
Not tho' the Globe of Earth had been the Giant's floor.
Nor in eternal Torments could he lie;

Nor could his Corps fufficient food supply.
But he's the Tityus, who by Love oppreft,
Or Tyrant Pallion preying on his Breaft,
And ever anxious thoughts, is robb'd of reft.
The Sifyphus is he, whom noise and strife
Seduce from all the foft retreats of Life,
To vex the Government, difturb the Laws:
Drunk with the Fumes of popular applause,
He courts the giddy Crowd to make him great,

}

And sweats and toils in vain, to mount the fovereign feat.
For ftill to aim at pow'r, and still to fail,
Ever to ftrive, and never to prevail,
What is it, but, in Reafon's true account,
To heave the Stone against the rifing Mount,
Which urg'd, and labour'd, and forc'd up with pain,
Recoils, and rowls impetuous down, and fmokes along
the plain.

Then ftill to treat thy ever-craving Mind

With ev'ry Bleffing, and of ev'ry kind,
Yet never fill thy rav'ning appetite;
Though Years and Seasons vary thy delight,
Yet nothing to be seen of all the store,
But ftill the Wolf within thee barks for more;
This is the Fable's Moral, which they tell
Of fifty foolish Virgins damn'd in Hell
To leaky Veffels, which the Liquor fpill;
To Veffels of their Sex, which none could ever fill.
As for the Dog, the Furies, and their Snakes,
The gloomy Caverns, and the burning Lakes,

And

And all the vain infernal trumpery,

They neither are, nor were, nor e'er can be.
But here on Earth the Guilty have in view
The mighty Pains to mighty Mischiefs due;
Racks, Prisons, Poifons, the Tarpeian Rock,
Stripes, Hangmen, Pitch, and fuffocating Smoke;
And last, and most, if these were cast behind,
Th' avenging horror of a Conscious Mind,
Whofe deadly fear anticipates the blow,
And fees no end of Punishment and Woe;
But looks for more, at the last gasp of Breath:
This makes an Hell on Earth, and Life a Death.
Mean-time, when thoughts of death disturb thy Head;
Confider, Ancus great and good is dead;
Ancus, thy better far, was born to die;
And thou, doft thou bewail mortality?
So many Monarchs with their mighty State,
Who rul'd the World, were over rul'd by Fate.
That haughty King, who lorded o'er the Main,
And whofe ftupendous Bridge did the wild Waves reftrain,,
(In vain they foam'd, in vain they threatned wreck,
While his proud Legions march'd upon their back :)
Him Death, a greater Monarch, overcame ;
Nor fpar'd his Guards the more, for their immortalName
The Roman Chief, the Carthaginian Dread,
Scipio, the Thunder-bolt of War, is dead,
And, like a common Slave, by Fate in triumph led.
The Founders of invented Arts are loft;

And Wits, who made Eternity their boast.
Where now is Homer, who poffefs'd the Throne ?
Th'immortal Work remains, the mortal Author's gone.
Democritus, perceiving Age invade,

His Body weaken'd, and his Mind decay'd,

Obey'd the Summons with a chearful Face :

Made hafte to welcome Death, and met him half the Race.
That stroke ev'n Epicurus could not bar,
Though he in Wit furpafs'd Mankind, as far
As does the mid-day Sun the mid-night Star.
And thou, doft thou difdain to yield thy Breath,.
Whofe very life is little more than death?
More than one half by lazy fleep poffeft;
And when awake, thy Soul but nods at best,
Day-dreams and fickly thoughts revolving in thy Breaft.
Eternal Troubles haunt thy anxious Mind,
Whofe caufe and cure thou never hop'ft to find;
But ftill uncertain, with thy felf at ftrife,
Thou wander'st in the Labyrinth of Life.
O, if the foolish Race of Man, who find
A weight of cares ftill preffing on their Mind,
Could find as well the caufe of this unreft,
And all this burden lodg'd within the Breaft;
Sure they would change their Course, nor live as now,
Uncertain what to with or what to vow.

Uneafy both in Country and in Town,

They fearch a Place to lay their Burden down.
One, restless in his Palace, walks abroad,
And vainly thinks to leave behind the load:

But ftraight returns; for he's as reftlefs there ;
And finds there's no relief in open Air.
Another to his Villa would retire,

And fpurs as hard as if it were on fire;
No fooner enter'd at his Country door,
But he begins to ftretch, and yawn, and fnore;
Or feeks the City which he left before.
Thus every Man o'erworks his weary will,
To fhun himself, and to fhake off his Ill;

The shaking Fit returns, and hangs upon him ftill.

No

No profpect of Repose, nor hope of Ease;
The Wretch is ignorant of his Disease;

Which known would all his fruitless trouble spare;
For he would know the World not worth his care:
Then would he search more deeply for the cause;
And study Nature well, and Nature's Laws :
For in this moment lies not the debate,

But on our future, fix'd, eternal State;
That never-changing State, which all muft keep,
Whom Death has doom'd to everlasting sleep.
Why are we then fo fond of mortal Life,
Beset with dangers and maintain'd with strife?
A Life, which all our care can never fave;
One Fate attends us, and one common Grave.
Befides, we tread but a perpetual round;
We ne'er ftrike out, but beat the former ground,

For ftill we think an abfent Bleffing beft,
Which cloys, and is no Bleffing when poffeft;
A new arifing With expels it from the Breaft.
The fev'rifh thirst of Life increases still;

We call for more and more, and never have our fill;
Yet know not what to-morrow we shall try,
What dregs of Life in the laft draught may lie:
Nor, by the longest Life we can attain,

One Moment from the length of Death we gain;
For all behind belongs to his eternal Reign.
When once the Fates have cut the mortal Thread,
The Man as much to all Intents is dead,
Who dies to-day, and will as long be fo,
As he who dy'd a thousand Years ago.

3

}

}

The

The latter Part of the Fourth Book of

LUCRETIUS.

Concerning the Nature of Love.

Beginning at this Line,

Sic igitur Veneris qui telis accipit i&tum, &c.

TH

HUS, therefore, he, who feels the fiery Dart
Of ftrong Defire transfix his amorous Heart,
Whether fome beauteous Boy's alluring Face,
Or lovelier Maid, with unrefifted Grace,
From her each part the winged Arrow fends,
From whence he first was ftruck, he thither tends;
Reflefs he roams, impatient to be freed,
And eager to inject the sprightly Seed.
For fierce Defire does all his Mind employ,
And ardent Love affures approaching Joy.
Such is the nature of that pleafing Smart,
Whole burning Drops diftil upon the Heart,
The fever of the Soul fhot from the Fair,
And the cold Ague of fucceeding Care.
If abfent, her Idea still appears,

And her fweet Name is chiming in your Ears.
But strive those pleafing Fantoms to remove,
And fhun th' aerial Images of Love,

That feed the Flame: When one molefts thy Mind,
Discharge thy Loins on all the leaky kind;
For that's a wifer way, than to restrain
Within thy fwelling Nerves that hoard of Pain..
For ev'ry Hour fome deadlier Symptom fhows,
And by delay the gath'ring Venom grows,
When kindly Applications are not us'd;

The Scorpion, Love, muft on the Wound be bruis'd :

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