O the dear pleasures of the velvet plain, The painted tablets, dealt and dealt again! Cards, with what rapture, and the polish'd die, The yawning chasm of indolence supply! Then to the dance, and make the sober moon Witness of joys, that shun the sight of noon.

170

Blame, cynic, if you can, quadrille or ball,
The snug close party, or the splendid hall,
Where Night, down-stooping from her ebon throne,
Views constellations brighter than her own.

'Tis innocent, and harmless, and refin'd,

The balm of care, Elysium of the mind.

Innocent! Oh if venerable Time

Slain at the foot of Pleasure be no crime,

Then, with his silver beard and magic wand,
Let Comus rise archbishop of the land;
Let him your rubric and your feasts prescribe,
Grand metropolitan of all the tribe.

Of manners rough, and coarse athletic cast,
The rank debauch suits Clodio's filthy taste.

180

Rufillus, exquisitely form'd by rule,

Not of the moral, but the dancing school,
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 constable, 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 cause 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 size,

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

Folly and Innocence are so alike,

The diff'rence, though essential, fails to strike.

Yet folly ever has a vacant stare,

A simp'ring count'nance, and a trifling air;
But Innocence, sedate, serene, erect,

Delights us, by engaging our respect.

190

200

Man, Nature's guest by invitation sweet,
Receives from her both appetite and treat;
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 slave of sense.
Daniel ate pulse by choice-example rare!

210

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

Gorgonius sits, abdominous and wan,

Like a fat squab upon a Chinese fan:

He snuffs far off th' anticipated joy;

Turtle and ven❜son all his thoughts employ; 220 Prepares for meals as jockies take a sweat,

Oh, nauseous!-an emetic for a whet!

Will Providence o'erlook the wasted good?

Temperance were no virtue if he could.

That pleasures, therefore, or what such we

call,

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

And some, 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 stream still purling in his ear,
Lip-deep in what he longs for, and yet curs'd
With prohibition, and perpetual thirst?
No, wrangler-destitute of shame and sense,
The precept, that enjoins him abstinence,
Forbids him none but the licentious joy,

230

Whose fruit, though fair, tempts only to de

stroy.

Remorse, the fatal egg by Pleasure laid

In ev'ry bosom where her nest is made,

240

Hatch'd by the beams of truth, denies him rest,

And proves a raging scorpion in his breast.
No pleasure? Are domestic comforts dead?
Are all the nameless sweets of friendship fled?

Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame,

Good sense, good health, good conscience, and

good fame?

All these belong to virtue, and all

prove,

poor

That virtue has a title to your love.
Have you no touch of pity, that the
Stand starv'd at your inhospitable door?
Or if yourself too scantily supplied
Need help, let honest industry provide.
Earn, if you want; if you abound, impart:
These both are pleasures to the feeling heart.
No pleasure? Has some sickly eastern waste
Sent us a wind to parch us at a blast?
Can British Paradise no scenes afford,
To please her sated and indiff'rent lord?
Are sweet philosophy'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 sty.

250

260