There, beings deathless as their haughty lord, Are hammer'd to the galling oar for life; And plough the winter's wave, and reap despair. Some, for hard masters, broken under arms, 250 In battle lopp'd away, with half their limbs, 251 Beg bitter bread through realms their valour saved, If so the tyrant, or his minion, doom. Want and incurable disease (fell pair!) On hopeless multitudes remorseless seize At once; and make a refuge of the grave. How groaning hospitals eject their dead! What numbers groan for sad admission there! What numbers, once in fortune's lap high-fed, Solicit the cold hand of charity! 260 To shock us more, solicit it in vain! Ye silken sons of pleasure! since in pains Ye rue more modish visits, visit here, And breathe from your debauch: give, and reduce Surfeit's dominion o'er you: but so great Your impudence, you blush at what is right. Happy, did sorrow seize on such alone! Not prudence can defend, or virtue save; Disease invades the chastest temperance; And punishment the guiltless; and alarm, 270 Through thickest shades pursues the fond of peace. Man's caution often into danger turns, And his guard falling, crushes him to death. Not happiness itself makes good her name! Our very wishes give us not our wish. How distant oft the thing we doat on most, From that for which we doat, felicity! The smoothest course of nature has its pains; And truest friends, through error, wound our rest. Without misfortune, what calamities! 280 And what hostilities, without a foe! Nor are foes wanting to the best on earth. But endless is the list of human ills, And sighs might sooner fail, than cause to sigh. A part how small of the terraqueous globe 285 Is tenanted by man! the rest a waste, Rocks, deserts, frozen seas, and burning sands: Wild haunts of monsters, poisons, stings, and death. Such is earth's melancholy map! But, far More sad! this earth is a true map of man. So bounded are its haughty lord's delights To woe's wide empire; where deep troubles toss, Loud sorrows howl, envenom'd passions bite, 293 Ravenous calamities our vitals seize, And threatening fate wide opens to devour. What then am I, who sorrow for myself? In age, in infancy, from others' aid Is all our hope; to teach us to be kind. That, nature's first, last lesson to mankind; The selfish heart deserves the pain it feels; 300 More generous sorrow, while it sinks, exalts; And conscious virtue mitigates the pang. Nor virtue, more than prudence, bids me give Swoln thought a second channel; who divide, They weaken, too, the torrent of their grief. Take then, O world! thy much-indebted tear: How sad a sight is human happiness,