As crooked Satan the forbidden tree,
They leave their party-colour'd robe behind,
All that now glitters, while they rear aloft
Their brazen crests, and hiss at us below.
Of fortune's fucus strip them, yet alive;
Strip them of body, too; nay, closer still,
Away with all, but moral, in their minds;
And let what then remains, impose their name,
Pronounce them weak, or worthy; great, or mean.
How mean that snuff of glory Fortune lights,
And Death puts out! Dost thou demand a test,
A test, at once, infallible, and short,
Of real greatness? That man greatly lives,
Whate'er his fate, or fame, who greatly dies;
High-flush'd with hope, where heroes shall despair.
If this a true criterion, many courts,
Illustrious, might afford but few grandees.
Th' Almighty, from his throne, on earth surveys
Naught greater, than an honest, humble heart;
An humble heart, His residence! pronounc'd
His second seat; and rival to the skies.
The private path, the secret acts of men,
If noble, far the noblest of our lives!
How far above Lorenzo's glory sits
Th' illustrious master of a name unknown;
Whose worth unrivall'd, and unwitness'd, loves
Life's sacred shades, where gods converse with men ;
And Peace, beyond the world's conceptions, smiles!
As thou (now dark), before we part, shalt see.
But thy great soul this skulking glory scorns.
Lorenzo's sick, but when Lorenzo's seen;
And, when he shrugs at public business, lies.
Denied the public eye, the public voice,
As if he liv'd on others' breath, he dies.
Fain would he make the world his pedestal;
Mankind the gazers, the sole figure, he.
Knows he, that mankind praise against their will
And mix as much detraction as they can?
Knows he, that faithless Fame her whisper has.
As well as trumpet? that his vanity
Is so much tickled from not hearing all?
Knows this all-knower, that from itch of praise,
Or, from an itch more sordid, when he shines,
Taking his country by five hundred ears,
Senates at once admire him, and despise,
With modest laughter lining loud applause,
Which makes the smile more mortal to his fame?
His fame, which (like the mighty Cæsar), crown'd
With laurels, in full senate, greatly falls,
By seeming friends, that honour, and destroy.
We rise in glory, as we sink in pride:
Where boasting ends, there dignity begins:
And yet, mistaken beyond all mistake,
The blind Lorenzo's proud-of being proud;
And dreams himself ascending in his fall.
An eminence, though fancied, turns the brain:
All vice wants hellebore; but of all vice,
Pride loudest calls, and for the largest bowl;
Because, unlike all other vice, it flies,
In fact, the point, in fancy most pursu 'd.
Who court applause, oblige the world in this ;
They gratify man's passion to refuse.
Superior honour, when assum'd, is lost;
Ev'n good men turn banditti, and rejoice,
Like Kouli-Khan, in plunder of the proud.
Though somewhat disconcerted, steady still
To the world's cause, with half a face of joy,
Lorenzo cries-"Be, then, Ambition cast;
Ambition's dearer far stands unimpeach'd,
Gay Pleasure! proud Ambition is her slave;
For her, he soars at great, and hazards ill;
For her, he fights, and bleeds, or overcomes;
And paves his way, with crowns, to reach her smile:
Who can resist her charms ?"—or, should?
What mortal shall resist, where angels yield?
Pleasure's the mistress of ethereal pow'rs;
For her contend the rival gods above;
Pleasure's the mistress of the world below;
And well it was for man, that Pleasure charms :
How would all stagnate, but for Pleasure's ray!
How would the frozen stream of action cease!
What is the pulse of this so busy world?
The love of pleasure: that, through every vein,
Throws motion, warmth; and shuts out death from life.
Though various are the tempers of mankind,
Pleasure's gay family hold all in chains:
Some most affect the black; and some, the fair;
Some honest pleasure court; and some, obscene.
Pleasures obscene are various, as the throng
Of passions, that can err in human hearts;
Mistake their objects, or transgress their bounds.
Think you there's but one whoredom?
But when our reason licenses delight.
Dost doubt, Lorenzo? thou shalt doubt no more.
Thy father chides thy gallantries; yet hugs
An ugly, common harlot, in the dark;
A rank adulterer with others' gold!
And that hag, Vengeance, in a corner, charms.
Hatred her brothel has, as well as Love,
Where horrid epicures debauch in blood.
Whate'er the motive, pleasure is the mark:
For her, the black assassin draws his sword;
For her, dark statesmen trim their midnight lamp,
To which no single sacrifice may fall;
For her, the saint abstains; the miser starves;
The Stoic proud, for Pleasure, pleasure scorn'd;
For her, Affliction's daughters grief indulge,
And find, or hope, a luxury in tears;
For her, guilt, shame, toil, danger, we defy ;
And, with an aim voluptuous, rush on death.
Thus universal her despotic pow'r!
And as her empire wide, her praise is just.
Patron of pleasure! doater on delight!
I am thy rival; pleasure I profess;
Pleasure the purpose of my gloomy song.
Pleasure is naught but virtue's gayer name,
I wrong her still, I rate her worth too low;
Virtue the root, and pleasure is the flow'r;
And honest Epicurus' foes were fools.
But this sounds harsh, and gives the wise offence;
If o'erstrain'd wisdom still retains the name.
How knits Austerity her cloudy brow,
And blames, as bold, and hazardous, the praise
Of Pleasure, to mankind, unprais'd, too dear!
Ye modern Stoics! hear my soft reply;
Their senses men will trust: we can't impose;
Or, if we could, is imposition right?
Own honey sweet; but, owning, add this sting;
"When mix'd with poison, it is deadly too."
Truth never was indebted to a lie.
Is naught but virtue to be prais'd, as good?
Why then is health preferr'd before disease?
What nature loves is good, without our leave.
And where no future drawback cries, “Beware!”
Pleasure, though not from virtue, should prevail.
'Tis balm to life, and gratitude to Heav'n;
How cold our thanks for bounties unenjoy'd!
The love of pleasure is man's eldest-born,
Born in his cradle, living to his tomb;
Wisdom, her younger sister, though more grave,
Was meant to minister, and not to mar,
Imperial Pleasure, queen of human hearts.
Lorenzo! thou, her majesty's renown'd,
Though uncoift, counsel, learned in the world!
Who think'st thyself a Murray,1 with disdain
May'st look on me. Yet, my Demosthenes!
Canst thou plead Pleasure's cause as well as I?
Know'st thou her nature, purpose, parentage?
Attend my song, and thou shalt know them all;
And know thyself; and know thyself to be
(Strange truth!) the most abstemious man alive.
Tell not Calista; she will laugh thee dead;
Or send thee to her hermitage with L-
Absurd presumption! Thou who never knew'st
A serious thought! shalt thou dare dream of joy?
No man e'er found a happy life by chance;
Or yawn'd it into being with a wish;
Or, with the snout of grovelling appetite,
E'er smelt it out, and grubb'd it from the dirt.
An art it is, and must be learn'd; and learn'd
With unremitting effort, or be lost;
And leaves us perfect blockheads, in our bliss.
The clouds may drop down titles and estates;
Wealth may seek us; but Wisdom must be sought ;
Sought before all; but (how unlike all else
We seek on earth!) 'tis never sought in vain.
First, Pleasure's birth, rise, strength, and grandeur, see. Brought forth by Wisdom, nurs'd by Discipline, By Patience taught, by Perseverance crown'd,
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