'Tis time, high time, to shift this dismal scene. This hugg'd, this hideous state, what art can cure? One only; but that one, what all may reach; Virtue--she, wonder-working goddess! charms That rock to bloom; and tames the painted shrew; And what will more surprise, Lorenzo! gives To life's sick, nauseous iteration, change; And straightens nature's circle to a line. 370 Believest thou this, Lorenzo? lend an ear, A patient ear, thou'lt blush to disbelieve. A languid, leaden iteration reigns, And ever must, o'er those, whose joys are joys Of sight, smell, taste: the cuckoo-seasons sing The same dull note to such as nothing prize, But what those seasons, from the teeming earth, To doating sense indulge. But nobler minds, Which relish fruits unripen'd by the sun, Make their days various; various as the dyes 380 On the dove's neck, which wanton in his rays. On minds of dove-like innocence possess'd, On lighten'd minds, that bask in virtue's beams, Nothing hangs tedious, nothing old revolves In that for which they long, for which they live. Their glorious efforts, wing'd with heavenly hope, Each rising morning sees still higher rise; Each bounteous dawn its novelty presents To worth maturing, new strength, lustre, fame; 389 While nature's circle, like a chariot-wheel Rolling beneath their elevated aims, Makes their fair prospect fairer every hour; Advancing virtue, in a line to bliss; Virtue, which Christian motives best inspire! And bliss, which Christian schemes alone ensure! And shall we then, for virtue's sake, commence Apostates, and turn infidels for joy? A truth it is, few doubt, but fewer trust, "He sins against this life, who slights the next." What is this life? How few their favourite know! 400 Fond in the dark, and blind in our embrace, By passionately loving life, we make Loved life unlovely; hugging her to death. We give to time eternity's regard; And, dreaming, take our passage for our port. Life has no value as an end, but means; An end deplorable! a means divine! When 'tis our all, 'tis nothing; worse than nought; A nest of pains: when held as nothing, much: Like some fair humorists, life is most enjoy'd, 410 When courted least; most worth, when disesteem'd; Then 'tis the seat of comfort, rich in peace; In prospect richer far; important! awful! Not to be mention'd, but with shouts of praise! Not to be thought on, but with tides of joy! The mighty basis of eternal bliss! Where now the barren rock? the painted shrew? Where now, Lorenzo! life's eternal round? Have I not made my triple promise good? Vain is the world; but only to the vain. 420 To what compare we then this varying scene, Whose worth ambiguous rises, and declines?