Give it its wholesome empire! let it reign, That kind chastiser of thy soul in joy! Its reign will spread thy glorious conquests far, And still the tumults of thy ruffled breast: Auspicious era! golden days, begin! The thought of death shall, like a god, inspire. And why not think on death? Is life the theme 310 Of every thought? and wish of every hour? And song of every joy? Surprising truth! The beaten spaniel's fondness not so strange. To wave the numerous ills that seize on life As their own property, their lawful prey; Ere man has measured half his weary stage, His luxuries have left him no reserve, No maiden relishes, unbroach'd delights; On cold served repetitions he subsists, And in the tasteless present chews the past; 320 Disgusted chews, and scarce can swallow down. 321 Like lavish ancestors, his earlier years Have disinherited his future hours, Which starve on orts, and glean their former field. Live ever here, Lorenzo?--shocking thought! So shocking, they who wish, disown it too; Disown from shame what they from folly crave. Live ever in the womb, nor see the light? For what live ever here?--With labouring step To tread our former footsteps? pace the round 330 Eternal? to climb life's worn, heavy wheel, Which draws up nothing new? to beat, and beat The beaten track? to bid each wretched day The former mock? to surfeit on the same, And yawn our joys? or thank a misery For change, though sad? to see what we have seen? Hear, till unheard, the same old slabber'd tale? To taste the tasted, and at each return Less tasteful? o'er our palates to decant Another vintage? strain a flatter year, 340 Through loaded vessels, and a laxer tone? Crazy machines to grind earth's wasted fruits! Ill-ground, and worse concocted! load, not life! The rational foul kennels of excess! Still-streaming thoroughfares of dull debauch! Trembling each gulp, lest death should snatch the bowl. Such of our fine ones is the wish refined! So would they have it: elegant desire! Why not invite the bellowing stalls, and wilds? But such examples might their riot awe. 350 Through want of virtue, that is, want of thought (Though on bright thought they father all their flights), To what are they reduced? To love, and hate, The same vain world; to censure, and espouse, This painted shrew of life, who calls them fool 355 Each moment of each day; to flatter bad Through dread of worse; to cling to this rude rock, Barren, to them, of good, and sharp with ills, And hourly blacken'd with impending storms, And infamous for wrecks of human hope-- Scared at the gloomy gulf, that yawns beneath, Such are their triumphs! such their pangs of joy! 362