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 I. 
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 V. 
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 VIII. 
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Since Virtue's recompence is doubtful here,
If man dies wholly, well may we demand,
Why is man suffer'd to be good in vain?
Why, to be good in vain, is man enjoin'd?
Why, to be good in vain, is man betray'd?
Betray'd by traitors lodged in his own breast,
By sweet complacencies from Virtue felt?
Why whispers Nature lies on Virtue's part?
Or if blind Instinct (which assumes the name
Of sacred Conscience) plays the fool in man,
Why Reason made accomplice in the cheat?
Why are the wisest loudest in her praise?
Can man by Reason's beam be led astray?
Or, at his peril, imitate his God?
Since Virtue sometimes ruins us on earth,
Or both are true, or man survives the grave.