Her real wants are scantily supplied; Where Power is Reason, Liberty a joke, Laws never made, or made but to be broke; To fix thy love on such a wretched spot, Because in Lust's wild fever there begot; Because, thy weight no longer fit to bear, By chance, not choice, thy mother dropp'd thee there, Is folly, which admits not of defence; It can't be Nature, for it is not sense. 200 By the same argument which here you hold, (When Falsehood's insolent, let Truth be told) If Propagation can in torments dwell, A devil must, if born there, love his Hell. _P_. Had Fate, to whose decrees I lowly bend, And e'en in punishment confess a friend, Ordain'd my birth in some place yet untried, On purpose made to mortify my pride, Where the sun never gave one glimpse of day, Where Science never yet could dart one ray, 210 Had I been born on some bleak, blasted plain Of barren Scotland, in a Stuart's reign, Or in some kingdom, where men, weak, or worse, Turn'd Nature's every blessing to a curse; Where crowns of freedom, by the fathers won, Dropp'd leaf by leaf from each degenerate son; In spite of all the wisdom you display, All you have said, and yet may have to say, My weakness here, if weakness I confess, I, as my country, had not loved her less. 220 Whether strict Reason bears me out in this, Let those who, always seeking, always miss The ways of Reason, doubt with precious zeal; Theirs be the praise to argue, mine to feel. Wish we to trace this passion to the root, We, like a tree, may know it by its fruit; From its rich stem ten thousand virtues spring, Ten thousand blessings on its branches cling; Yet in the circle of revolving years Not one misfortune, not one vice, appears. 230 Hence, then, and what you Reason call, adore; This, if not Reason, must be something more. But (for I wish not others to confine; Be their opinions unrestrain'd as mine) Whether this love's of good or evil growth, A vice, a virtue, or a spice of both, Let men of nicer argument decide; If it is virtuous, soothe an honest pride With liberal praise; if vicious, be content, It is a vice I never can repent; 240 A vice which, weigh'd in Heaven, shall more avail Than ten cold virtues in the other scale. _F_. This wild, untemper'd zeal (which, after all, We, candour unimpeach'd, might madness call) Is it a virtue? That you scarce pretend; Or can it be a vice, like Virtue's friend, Which draws us off from and dissolves the force Of private ties, nay, stops us in our course To that grand object of the human soul, That nobler love which comprehends the whole? 250 Coop'd in the limits of this petty isle, This nook, which scarce deserves a frown or smile, Weigh'd with Creation, you, by whim undone, Give all your thoughts to what is scarce worth one. The generous soul, by Nature taught to soar, Her strength confirm'd in philosophic lore,