Whilst others, won by either, now pursue The guilty Chace, now keep the good in view; For ever wretched, with themselves at strife, They lead a puzzled, vext, uncertain Life; For, transient Vice bequeaths a lingering Pain, Which transient Virtue seeks to cure in vain. Whilst thus engag’d, high Views enlarge the Soul, New Interests draw, new Principles controul; Nor thus the Soul alone resigns her Grief, But here the tortur’d Body finds Relief; For see where yonder sage Arachnè shapes Her subtile Gin, that not a Fly escapes! There PHYSIC fills the Space, and far around, Pile above pile, her learned Works abound; Glorious their Aim--to ease the labouring Heart, To war with Death and stop his flying Dart; To trace the Source whence the fierce Contest grew, And Life’s short Lease on easier Terms renew; To calm the Frenzy of the burning Brain, To heal the Tortures of imploring Pain, Or, when more powerful Ills all Efforts brave,} To ease the Victim no Device can save, } And smooth the stormy Passage to the Grave. } But Man, who knows no Good unmix’d and pure, Oft finds a Poison where he sought a Cure: For, grave Deceivers lodge their Labours here, And cloud the Science they pretend to clear: Scourges for Sin, the solemn Tribe are sent; Like Fire and Storms, they call us to repent: But Storms subside, and Fires forget to rage: _These_ are eternal Scourges of the Age: ’Tis not enough that each terrific Hand Spreads Desolation round a guilty Land; But, train’d to ill, and harden’d by its Crimes, Their Pen relentless kills through future Times. Say ye, who search these Records of the Dead, Who read huge Works, to boast what ye have read; Can all the real Knowledge ye possess, Or those (if such there are), who more than guess, Atone for each Impostor’s wild Mistakes, And mend the Blunders Pride or Folly makes? What Thought so wild, what airy Dream so light, That will not prompt a Theorist to write? What Art so prevalent, what Proof so strong, That will convince him his Attempt is wrong? One in the Solids finds each lurking Ill, Nor grants the passive Fluids power to kill; A learned Friend some subtler Reason brings, Absolves the Channels, but condemns their Springs; The subtile Nerves, that shun the Doctor’s Eye, Escape no more his subtler Theory; The vital Heat, that warms the labouring Heart, Lends a fair System to these Sons of Art; The vital Air, a pure and subtle Stream, } Serves a Foundation for an airy Scheme, } Assists the Doctor, and supports his Dream.} Some have their favourite Ills, and each Disease Is but a younger Branch that kills from these: One to the Gout contracts all human Pain, He views it raging in the frantic Brain; Finds it in Fevers all his efforts mar,