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 I. 
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 V. 
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 VIII. 
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“Has Virtue, then, no joys?”—Yes, joys dear-bought.
Talk ne'er so long, in this imperfect state,
Virtue and Vice are at eternal war.
Virtue's a combat; and who fights for nought,
Or for precarious or for small reward?
Who Virtue's self-reward so loud resound,
Would take degrees angelic here below,
And Virtue, while they compliment, betray,
By feeble motives and unfaithful guards.
The crown, the' unfading crown, her soul inspires:
'Tis that, and that alone, can countervail
The Body's treacheries, and the World's assaults:
On Earth's poor pay our famish'd Virtue dies.
Truth incontestable, in spite of all
A Bayle has preach'd, or a Voltaire believed!