Down the steep precipice of wrong he slides; There's nothing to support him in the right. 1152 Faith in the future wanting, is, at least In embryo, every weakness, every guilt; And strong temptation ripens it to birth. If this life's gain invites him to the deed, Why not his country sold, his father slain? 'Tis virtue to pursue our good supreme; And his supreme, his only good, is here. Ambition, avarice, by the wise disdain'd, 1160 Is perfect wisdom, while mankind are fools, And think a turf, or tombstone, covers all: These find employment, and provide for Sense A richer pasture, and a larger range; And Sense by right divine ascends the throne, When Virtue's prize and prospect are no more; Virtue no more we think the will of Heaven. Would Heaven quite beggar Virtue, if beloved? "Has Virtue charms?"--I grant her heavenly fair; But if unportion'd, all will Interest wed; 1170 Though that our admiration, this our choice. The virtues grow on immortality; That root destroy'd, they wither and expire. A Deity believed, will nought avail; Rewards and punishments make God adored; And hopes and fears give Conscience all her power. As in the dying parent dies the child, Virtue, with immortality, expires. Who tells me he denies his soul immortal, 1179 Whate'er his boast, has told me, he's a knave. His duty 'tis, to love himself alone; Nor care though mankind perish, if he smiles. Who thinks ere long the man shall wholly die, Is dead already; nought but brute survives. And are there such?--Such candidates there are For more than death; for utter loss of being, Being, the basis of the Deity! Ask you the cause?--The cause they will not tell: Nor need they: oh the sorceries of Sense! They work this transformation on the soul; 1190 Dismount her, like the serpent at the fall, Dismount her from her native wing (which soar'd Erewhile ethereal heights), and throw her down, To lick the dust, and crawl in such a thought. Is it in words to paint you? O ye fallen! Fallen from the wings of Reason, and of Hope! Erect in stature, prone in appetite! Patrons of pleasure, posting into pain! Lovers of argument, averse to sense! Boasters of liberty, fast bound in chains! 1200 Lords of the wide creation, and the shame! More senseless than th' irrationals you scorn! More base than those you rule! than those you pity, Far more undone! O ye most infamous Of beings, from superior dignity! Deepest in woe, from means of boundless bliss! Ye cursed by blessings infinite! because Most highly favour'd, most profoundly lost! Ye motley mass of contradiction strong! And are you, too, convinced, your souls fly off 1210 In exhalation soft, and die in air, From the full flood of evidence against you?