Classic Poem

In Person of the Author.

I.

Pardon me, Vertue, whatsoe'er thou art,
(For sure thou of the God-head art a part,
And all that is of him must be
The very Deity.)
Pardon, if I in ought did thee blaspheme,
Or injure thy pure Sacred Name:
Accept unfeign'd Repentance, Prayers and Vows,
The best Atonement of my penitent humble Muse,
The best that Heav'n requires, or Mankind can produce.
All my Attempts hereafter shall at thy Devotion be,
Ready to consecrate my Ink and very Blood to thee.
Forgive me, ye blest Souls that dwell above,
Where you by its reward the worth of Vertue prove.
Forgive (if you can do't) who know no Passion now but Love.
And you unhappy happy few,
Who strive with Life, and Humane Miseries below,
Forgive me too,
If I ought disparag'd them, or else discourag'd you.

II.

Blest Vertue! whose Almighty Power
Does to our fallen Race restore
All that in Paradise we lost, and more,
Lifts us to Heaven, and makes us be
The Heirs and Image of the Deity.
Soft gentle Yoak! which none but resty Fools refuse,
Which before Freedom I would ever chuse.
Easie are all the Bonds that are impos'd by thee;
Easie as those of Lovers are,
(If I with ought less pure may thee compare)
Nor do they force, but only guide our Liberty:
By such soft Ties are Spirits above confin'd;
So gentle is the Chain which them to Good does bind.
Sure Card, whereby this frail and tott'ring Bark we steer
Thro' Life's tempestuous Ocean here;
Thro' all the tossing Waves of Fear,
And dangerous Rocks of black Despair.
Safe in thy Conduct unconcern'd we move,
Secure from all the threatning Storms that blow,
From all Attacks of Chance below,
And reach the certain Haven of Felicity above.

III.

Best Mistress of our Souls! whose Charms and Beauties last,
And are by very Age encreast,
By which all other Glories are defac'd.
Thou'rt thy own Dowry, and a greater far
Than All the Race of Woman-kind e'er brought,
Tho' each of them like the first Wife were fraught,
And half the Universe did for her Portion share.
That tawdry Sex, which giddy senseless we
Thro' Ignorance so vainly Deifie,
Are all but glorious Brutes when un-endow'd with thee.
'Tis Vice alone, the truer Jilt, and worse,
In whose Enjoyment tho' we find
A flitting Pleasure, yet it leaves behind
A Pain and Torture in the Mind,
And claps the wounded Conscience with incurable Remorse,
Or else betrays us to the great Trepans of Humane Kind.

IV.

'Tis Vice, the greater Thraldom, harder Drudgery,
Whereby deposing Reason from its gentle Sway,
(That rightful Sovereign which we should obey)
We undergo a various Tyranny,
And to un-number'd servile Passions Homage pay.
These with Egyptian Rigor us enslave,
And govern with unlimited Command;
They make us endless Toil pursue,
And still their doubled Tasks renew,
To push on our too hasty Fate, and build our Grave,
Or which is worse, to keep us from the Promis'd Land.
Nor may we think our Freedom to retrieve,
We struggle with our heavy Yoak in vain:
In vain we strive to break that Chain,
Unless a Miracle relieve;
Unless th' Almighty Wand enlargement give,
We never must expect Delivery,
Till Death, the universal Writ of Ease, does set us free.

V.

Some sordid Avarice in Vassallage confines,
Like Roman Slaves condemn'd to th' Mines;
These are in its harsh Bridewel lash'd and punished,
And with hard Labour scarce can earn their Bread.
Others Ambition, that Imperious Dame,
Exposes cruelly, like Gladiators, here
Upon the World's Great Theatre.
Thro' Dangers and thro' Blood they wade to Fame,
To purchase grinning Honor and an empty Name.
And some by Tyrant-Lust are Captive led,
And with false Hopes of Pleasure fed;
'Till tir'd with Slavery to their own Desires,
Life's o'er-charg'd Lamp goes out, and in a Snuff expires.

VI.

Consider we the little Arts of Vice,
The Stratagems and Artifice
Whereby she does attract her Votaries:
All those Allurements and those Charms
Which pimp Transgressors to her Arms,
Are but foul Paint, and counterfeit Disguise,
To palliate her own conceal'd Deformities,
And for false empty Joys betrays us to true solid Harms.
In vain she would her Dowry boast,
Which clog'd with Legacies we never gain,
But with unvaluable Cost;
Which got we never can retain;
But must the greatest part be lost,
To the great Bubbles, Age or Chance, again.
'Tis vastly over-balanc'd by the Joynture which we make,
In which our Lives, our Souls, our All is set at Stake.
Like silly Indians , foolish we
With a known Cheat, a losing Traffick hold,
Whilst led by an ill-judging Eye,
W'admire a trifling Pageantry,
And merchandize our Jewels and our Gold,
For worthless Glass and Beads, or an Exchange 's Frippery.
If we a while maintain th' expensive Trade,
Such mighty Impost on the Cargo's laid,
Such a vast Custom to be paid,
We're forc'd at last like wretched Bankrupts to give out,
Clapt up by Death, and in Eternal Durance shut.

VII.

What art thou, Fame, for which so eagerly we strive?
What art thou but an empty Shade
By the Reflection of our Actions made?
Thou, unlike others, never follow'st us alive;
But, like a Ghost, walk'st only after we are dead.
Posthumous Toy! vain after-Legacy!
Which only ours can be,
When we our selves no more are we!
Fickle as vain! who dost on vulgar Breath depend,
Which we by dear Experience find
More changeable, more veering than th'unconstant Wind.
What art thou, Gold, that cheat'st the Miser's Eyes?
Which he does so devoutly idolize;
For whom he all his Rest and Ease does sacrifice.
'Tis Use alone can all thy Value give,
And he from that no Benefit can e'er receive.
Curst Mineral! near Neighb'ring Hell begot,
Which all th' Infection of thy damned Neighbourhood hast brought.
Thou Bawd to Murthers, Rapes and Treachery,
And every greater Name of Villany;
From thee they all derive their Stock and Pedigree.
Thou the lewd World with all its crying Crimes dost store,
And hardly wilt allow the Devil the cause of more.
And what is Pleasure which does most beguile?
That Syren which betrays us with a flattering Smile.
We listen to the treacherous Harmony,
Which sings but our own Obsequy,
The Danger unperceiv'd till Death draw nigh;
Till drowning we want Pow'r to 'scape the fatal Enemy.

VIII.

How frantick is the wanton Epicure!
Who a perpetual Surfeit will endure?
Who places all his chiefest Happiness
In the Extravagancies of Excess,
Which wise Sobriety esteems but a Disease?
O mighty envied Happiness to eat!
Which fond mistaken Sots call Great!
Poor Frailty of our Flesh! which we each day
Must thus repair for fear of ruinous Decay!
Degrading of our Nature, where vile Brutes are fain
To make and keep up Man!
Which, when the Paradise above we gain,
Heav'n thinks too great an Imperfection to retain!
By each Disease the sickly Joy's destroy'd;
At every Meal it's nauseous and cloy'd,
Empty at best, as when in Dream enjoy'd;
When, cheated by a slumbering Imposture, we
Fancy a Feast, and great Regalio 's by:
And think we taste, and think we see,
And riot on imaginary Luxury.

IX.

Grant me, O Vertue, thy more solid lasting Joy;
Grant me the better Pleasures of the Mind,
Pleasures, which only in pursuit of thee we find,
Which Fortune cannot marr, nor Chance destroy.
One Moment in thy blest Enjoyment is
Worth an Eternity of that tumultuous Bliss,
Which we derive from Sense,
Which often cloys, and must resign to Impotence.
Grant me but this, how will I triumph in my happy State?
Above the Changes and Reverse of Fate;
Above her Favors and her Hate.
I'll scorn the worthless Treasures of Peru ,
And those of t! other Indies too.
I'll pity, Caesar 's Self with all his Trophies and his Fame,
And the vile brutish Herd of Epicures contemn,
And all the Under-shrievalties of Life not worth a Name.
Nor will I only owe my Bliss,
Like others, to a Multitude,
Where Company keeps up a forced Happiness;
Should all Mankind surcease to live,
And none but individual I survive,
Alone I would be happy, and enjoy my Solitude.
Thus shall my Life in pleasant Minutes wear,
Calm as the Minutes of the Evening are,
And gentle as the motions of the upper Air;
Soft as my Muse, and unconfin'd as she,
When flowing in the Numbers of Pindarique Liberty.
And when I see pale gastly Death appear,
That grand inevitable Test which all must bear,
Which best distinguishes the blest and wretched here;
I'll smile at all its Horrors, court my welcome Destiny,
And yield my willing Soul up in an easie Sigh;
And Epicures that see shall envy and confess,
That I, and those who dare like me be good, the chiefest Good possess.