46
The Complaint.
Night 3.
Eternal? To climb Life's worn Wheel,
Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat,
The beaten Track? To bid each wretched Day
The former mock? To surfeit on the Same,
And yawn our Joys? or thank a Misery
For Change, tho’ sad? To see what we have seen?
Hear, till unheard, the same old slabber'd Tale?
To taste the tasted, and at each Return
Less tasteful? O'er our Palates to decant
Another Vintage? Strain a flatter Year,
Thro' loaded Vessels, and a laxer Tone?
Crazy Machines to grind Earth's wasted Fruits!
Ill-ground, and worse-concocted! Load, not Life!
The Rational foul Kennels of Excess?
Still-streaming Thorough-fares of dull Debauch!
Trembling each Gulp, lest Death should snatch the Bowl.
Such of our Fine-ones is the Wish refin'd!
So would they have it: Elegant Desire!
Why not invite the bellowing Stalls, and Wilds?
But such Examples might their Riot awe.
Thro' Want of Virtue, that is, Want of Thought,
(Tho' on bright Thought they father all their Flights)
To what are they reduc’d? To love, and hate,
The same vain World; To censure, and espouse,
This painted Shrew of Life, who calls them Fool
Each Moment of each Day; To flatter Bad
Thro' Dread of Worse; To cling to this rude Rock,
Barren, to them, of Good, and sharp with Ills,
And hourly blacken'd with impending Storms,
And infamous for Wrecks of human Hope———
Scar'd at the gloomy Gulph, that yawns beneath.
Such are their Triumphs such their Pangs of Joy!
'Tis Time, high Time, to shift this dismal Scene.
This hugg'd, this hideous State, what Art can cure?
One only; but that One, what All may reach;
Which draws up nothing new? To beat, and beat,
The beaten Track? To bid each wretched Day
The former mock? To surfeit on the Same,
And yawn our Joys? or thank a Misery
For Change, tho’ sad? To see what we have seen?
Hear, till unheard, the same old slabber'd Tale?
To taste the tasted, and at each Return
Less tasteful? O'er our Palates to decant
Another Vintage? Strain a flatter Year,
Thro' loaded Vessels, and a laxer Tone?
Crazy Machines to grind Earth's wasted Fruits!
Ill-ground, and worse-concocted! Load, not Life!
The Rational foul Kennels of Excess?
Still-streaming Thorough-fares of dull Debauch!
Trembling each Gulp, lest Death should snatch the Bowl.
Such of our Fine-ones is the Wish refin'd!
So would they have it: Elegant Desire!
Why not invite the bellowing Stalls, and Wilds?
But such Examples might their Riot awe.
Thro' Want of Virtue, that is, Want of Thought,
(Tho' on bright Thought they father all their Flights)
To what are they reduc’d? To love, and hate,
The same vain World; To censure, and espouse,
This painted Shrew of Life, who calls them Fool
Each Moment of each Day; To flatter Bad
Thro' Dread of Worse; To cling to this rude Rock,
Barren, to them, of Good, and sharp with Ills,
And hourly blacken'd with impending Storms,
And infamous for Wrecks of human Hope———
Scar'd at the gloomy Gulph, that yawns beneath.
Such are their Triumphs such their Pangs of Joy!
'Tis Time, high Time, to shift this dismal Scene.
This hugg'd, this hideous State, what Art can cure?
One only; but that One, what All may reach;
Virtue—
