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The Relapse.
99
Frozen at Heart, while Speculation fines.
Awake, ye curious Indagators! fond
Of knowing All, but what avails you, known.
If you would learn Death's Character, attend.
All Casts of Conduct, all Degrees of Health,
All Dies of Fortune, and all Dates of Age,
Together shook in his impartial Urn,
Come forth at random: Or if Choice is made,
The Choice is quite sarcastic, and insults
All bold Conjecture, and foud Hopes of Man.
What countless Multitudes, not only leave,
But deeply disappoint us, by their Deaths!
Tho' great our Sorrow, greater our Surprize.
Like other Tyrants, Death delights to smite,
What, smitten, most proclaims the Pride of Pow'r,
And arbitrary Nod. His Joy supreme,
To bid the Wretch survive the Fortunate;
The Feeble wrap th'Athletic in his Shroud;
And weeping Fathers build their Childrens Tomb:
Me Thine, Narcissa! What tho' short thy Date?
Virtue, not rolling Suns, the Mind matures.
That Life is long, which answers Life's great End.
The Time that bears no Fruit, deserves no Name;
The Man of Wisdom is the Man of Years.
In hoary Youth Methusalems may die;
O how misdated on their flatt'ring Tombs!
Narcissa's Youth has lectur'd me thus far.
And can her Gaiety give Counsel too?
That, like the Jews fam'd Oracle of Gems,
Sparkles Instruction; such as throws new Light,
And opens more the Character of Death,
Ill known to thee, Lorenzo! This thy Vaunt:
"Give Death his Due, the Wretched, and the Old,
"Ev'n let him (weep his Rubbish to the Grave;
"Let him not violate kind Nature's Laws,
Awake, ye curious Indagators! fond
Of knowing All, but what avails you, known.
If you would learn Death's Character, attend.
All Casts of Conduct, all Degrees of Health,
All Dies of Fortune, and all Dates of Age,
Together shook in his impartial Urn,
Come forth at random: Or if Choice is made,
The Choice is quite sarcastic, and insults
All bold Conjecture, and foud Hopes of Man.
What countless Multitudes, not only leave,
But deeply disappoint us, by their Deaths!
Tho' great our Sorrow, greater our Surprize.
Like other Tyrants, Death delights to smite,
What, smitten, most proclaims the Pride of Pow'r,
And arbitrary Nod. His Joy supreme,
To bid the Wretch survive the Fortunate;
The Feeble wrap th'Athletic in his Shroud;
And weeping Fathers build their Childrens Tomb:
Me Thine, Narcissa! What tho' short thy Date?
Virtue, not rolling Suns, the Mind matures.
That Life is long, which answers Life's great End.
The Time that bears no Fruit, deserves no Name;
The Man of Wisdom is the Man of Years.
In hoary Youth Methusalems may die;
O how misdated on their flatt'ring Tombs!
Narcissa's Youth has lectur'd me thus far.
And can her Gaiety give Counsel too?
That, like the Jews fam'd Oracle of Gems,
Sparkles Instruction; such as throws new Light,
And opens more the Character of Death,
Ill known to thee, Lorenzo! This thy Vaunt:
"Give Death his Due, the Wretched, and the Old,
"Ev'n let him (weep his Rubbish to the Grave;
"Let him not violate kind Nature's Laws,
"But
