Go, learn thou this: From regulated Sense Is all our bliss--from sober Temperance. How much, Oh Temperance! to thee we owe, What joys sincere from thy pure fountains flow; Life's most protracted date derives from thee A calm old age, and death from anguish free. Doth Death affright thee with his dread parade, The hearse slow moving, and the cavalcade? Go, early learn its terrors to despise, Read virtue's lesson, and in time be wise. Enough of crimes on these Heav'n's vengeance wait, Let Satire aim at faults of humbler state. Whoe'er observes, will find in human race More difference of character than face; Some nice, odd turns, in all th' observer strike, Each his peculiar has, nor find we two alike. Blest with each art that soothes the ills of life, A quiet mind, not made for noise and strife; In whose fixed calm no jarring powers contend, Design'd to act as husband, father, friend; Had Philo been content with what was given, And, truly wise, enjoy'd on earth his heav'n: Philo had lived--but lived unknown to fame; Had died content,--but died without a name. No, Philo cried, be glorious praise my care, Nor let this name be mix'd with common air; For this he wastes the weary hours of night, Leaves peace to fools, and banishes delight; Nature in vain throws in her honest bars, The wretch runs counter to himself and stars; In vain--for lost no character he seems, And Philo does not live, but only dreams. Others there are, who to the shade retire, Who'd shine if nature would the clods inspire, And, as she gave them parts, would give them fire; But languid bodies, scarce informed with soul, In one dull round their vacant moments roll; Heavy and motionless as summer seas, They yawn out life in most laborious ease; Passions, half formed, in their cold bosoms lie, And all the man is sluggish anarchy. Yet wits, and wise, when some small shocks awake, As when the surface of some stagnant lake, Urged by the action of the busy air, Breaks its thick scum, and shows the bottom clear. Who knows not Florio? sweet, enraptured elf! Florio is known to all men but himself. Him folly owned the instant of his birth, And turned his soul to nonsense and to mirth; Nor boasts a son, in all her dancing crowd, So pert, so prim, so petulant, and proud. Mixture absurd and strange! we find in him Dulness with wit, sobriety with whim; A soul that sickens at each rising art With the mean malice of a coward's heart. So milky soft, so pretty, and so neat, With air so gentle, and with voice so sweet; What dog-star's rage, what maggot of the brain, Could make a fop so impudently vain, To throw all modesty aside, and sit The mighty censor of the works of wit? Say, wretch! what pride could prompt thee to bestow Abuse on power, the greatest power below; The Muse's power? That power thyself shall know: Her pen shall add thee to the long, long roll