 | Poems upon several occasions |  |
An Imperfect SPEECH.
And yet he fears to use them, and be free;Yet some have ventur'd, and why shou'd not all?
Let Villains perjur'd, envious and malicious,
The wretched Miser and the Midnight Murderer;
Betrayers of their Country, or their Friend,
506
Blue Lakes of Brimstone, undistinguish'd Fires,
Scorpions and Whips, and all that Guilt deserves;
Let these, and only these, thus plague themselves.
For though they fear what neither shall nor can be,
'Tis Punishment enough it makes 'em live,
Live, to endure the dreadful Apprehension
Of Death, to them so dreadful; but why dreadful,
At least to virtuous Minds—To be at rest,
To Sleep, and never hear of Trouble more,
Say, is this dreadful? Heart, woud'st thou be at quiet?
Dost thou thus beat for Rest and long for Ease,
And not command thy friendly Hand to help thee?
What Hand can be so easie as thy own,
To apply the Med'cine that cures all Diseases!
| Poems upon several occasions | |