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The RELAPSE.
All Expectation of the coming Foe.
Roufe, fland in Arms, nor lean against thy Spear;
Left Slumber fteal one Moment o'er thy Soul,
And Fate furprife thee nodding. Watch, be ftrong;
Thus give each Day the Merit, and Renown,
Of dying well; tho' doom'd but once to die.
Nor let Life's Period hidden (as from molt)
Hide too from Thee the precious Uſe of Life.
Early, not fadden, was NARCISSA's Fate.
Soon, not furprifing, Death his Vifit paid.
Her Thought went forth to meet him on his Way,
Nor Gaiety forgot it was to die.
Tho' Fortune too (our third and final Theme),
As an Accomplice, play'd her gaudy Plumes,
And ev'ry glitt'ring Gewgaw, on her Sight,
To dazzle, and debauch it from its Mark.
Death's dreadful Advent is the Mark of Man;
And ev'ry Thought that miffes it, is blind.
Fortune, with Youth and Gaiety, confpir'd
To weave a triple Wreath of Happinefs
(If Happinefs on Earth) to crown her Brow.
And could Death charge thro' fuch a fhining Shield?
That shining Shield invites the Tyrant's Spear.
As if to damp our elevated Aims,
And strongly preach Humility to Man.
O how portentous is Profperity!
How, Comet-like, it threatens, while it fhines!
Few Years but yield us Proof of Death's Ambition, A
To cull his Victims from the faireft Fold,
And theath his Shafts in all the Pride of Life.
When flooded with Abundance, purpled o'er
With recent Honours, bloom'd with ev'ry Blife,
Set up in Oftentation, made the Gaze,
The gaudy Centre, of the public Eye,
Roufe, fland in Arms, nor lean against thy Spear;
Left Slumber fteal one Moment o'er thy Soul,
And Fate furprife thee nodding. Watch, be ftrong;
Thus give each Day the Merit, and Renown,
Of dying well; tho' doom'd but once to die.
Nor let Life's Period hidden (as from molt)
Hide too from Thee the precious Uſe of Life.
Early, not fadden, was NARCISSA's Fate.
Soon, not furprifing, Death his Vifit paid.
Her Thought went forth to meet him on his Way,
Nor Gaiety forgot it was to die.
Tho' Fortune too (our third and final Theme),
As an Accomplice, play'd her gaudy Plumes,
And ev'ry glitt'ring Gewgaw, on her Sight,
To dazzle, and debauch it from its Mark.
Death's dreadful Advent is the Mark of Man;
And ev'ry Thought that miffes it, is blind.
Fortune, with Youth and Gaiety, confpir'd
To weave a triple Wreath of Happinefs
(If Happinefs on Earth) to crown her Brow.
And could Death charge thro' fuch a fhining Shield?
That shining Shield invites the Tyrant's Spear.
As if to damp our elevated Aims,
And strongly preach Humility to Man.
O how portentous is Profperity!
How, Comet-like, it threatens, while it fhines!
Few Years but yield us Proof of Death's Ambition, A
To cull his Victims from the faireft Fold,
And theath his Shafts in all the Pride of Life.
When flooded with Abundance, purpled o'er
With recent Honours, bloom'd with ev'ry Blife,
Set up in Oftentation, made the Gaze,
The gaudy Centre, of the public Eye,
When
