And yet I should not tempt my Fate, Nor trust my feeble strength, Which does with ev’ry softning Note abate And may at length Reduce me to the wretched Slave I hate; Tis strange extremity in me, To venture on a doubtful Victory, Where if you fail, I gain no more, Than what I had before; But ‘twill certain comfort bring, If I unconquer’d do escape from you; If I can live, and hear you sing, No other Forces can my Soul subdue; Sing, _Damon_, then, and let each Shade, Which with thy Heavenly voice is happy made, Bear witness if my courage be not great, To hear thee sing, and make a safe retreat. _On the Author of that Excellent Book Intituled The Way to Health, Long Life, and Happiness._ _By Mrs._ A. B. Hail, Learned Bard! who dost thy power dispence, And show’st us the first State of Innocence In that blest golden Age, when Man was young, When the whole Race was Vigorous and strong; When Nature did her wond’rous dictates give, And taught the Noble Savage how to live; When Christal Streams, and every plenteous Wood Afforded harmless drink, and wholsom food; E’er that ingratitude in Man was found, His Mother Earth with Iron Ploughs to wound; When unconfin’d, the spacious Plains produc’d What Nature crav’d, and more than Nature us’d; When every Sense to innocent delight Th’ agreeing Elements unforc’d invite; When Earth was gay, and Heaven was kind and bright, And nothing horrid did perplex the sight; Unprun’d the Roses and the Jes’min grew, } Nature each day drest all the World anew, } And Sweets without Mans aid each Moment grew; } Till wild Debauchery did Mens minds invade, And Vice, and Luxury became a Trade; Surer than War it laid whole Countrys wast, Not Plague nor Famine ruins half so fast; By swift degrees we took that Poison in, Regarding not the danger, nor the sin; Delightful, Gay, and Charming was the Bait, While Death did on th’ inviting Pleasure wait, And ev’ry Age produc’d a feebler Race, } Sickly their days, and those declin’d apace, } Scarce Blossoms Blow, and Wither in less space. } Till Nature thus declining by degrees, We have recourse to rich restoratives, By dull advice from some of Learned Note, We take the Poison for the Antidote; Till sinking Nature cloy’d with full supplys, O’er-charg’d grows fainter, Languishes and dies. These are the Plagues that o’er this Island reign, And have so many threescore thousands slain; Till you the saving Angel, whose blest hand Have sheath’d that Sword, that threatned half the Land; More than a Parent, Sir, we you must own, They give but life, but you prolong it on;