 | Miscellany Poems |  |
[We all prize Life; and yet how short's the Date?]
Ætas parentum pejor avis tulit
Nos nequiores, mox daturos
Progeniem vitiosiorem.
Hor.
Nos nequiores, mox daturos
Progeniem vitiosiorem.
Hor.
We all prize Life; and yet how short's the Date?
Not worth the trouble we are daily at.
Press'd with the load of Years, with Life we'r pleas'd,
With both our Arms, tho wretched, 'tis embrac'd.
Unhappy man! curs'd with a double Woe,
With Life's Vexation and its Shortness too.
How blessed was our uncorrupted State;
When from God's Hand we dropt Immaculate?
E're Nature had from Vice receiv'd its stain,
E're the Creation's Glory had its Bane.
When Moderation kept in drink and meat,
Men eat to Live, and did not Live to eat;
Before luxurious Variety
Had taught our Fathers Immature to dy.
When Nature open'd her unrifled store,
By former Ages never touch'd before,
Which flourish'd in its fresh unbafled Power.
When Native Knowledge o're the Soul was spread,
That could the use of Herbs and Mettals read,
And all, that might draw out Life's tender thread.
When benign Influences of the Stars
Contributed to Length of Happy Years,
That Those, who many Ages liv'd, might find
Those needfull Arts, of use to Humane kind.
Not worth the trouble we are daily at.
Press'd with the load of Years, with Life we'r pleas'd,
With both our Arms, tho wretched, 'tis embrac'd.
Unhappy man! curs'd with a double Woe,
With Life's Vexation and its Shortness too.
How blessed was our uncorrupted State;
When from God's Hand we dropt Immaculate?
29
E're the Creation's Glory had its Bane.
When Moderation kept in drink and meat,
Men eat to Live, and did not Live to eat;
Before luxurious Variety
Had taught our Fathers Immature to dy.
When Nature open'd her unrifled store,
By former Ages never touch'd before,
Which flourish'd in its fresh unbafled Power.
When Native Knowledge o're the Soul was spread,
That could the use of Herbs and Mettals read,
And all, that might draw out Life's tender thread.
When benign Influences of the Stars
Contributed to Length of Happy Years,
That Those, who many Ages liv'd, might find
Those needfull Arts, of use to Humane kind.
We, of all Generations far the worst,
In Time, in Place, and in our Selves accurs'd,
In the gross Lees o'th' Elements do dwell,
With nauseous Air and putrid Matter swell:
A Place, refined Souls would think an Hell.
Where old Decrepit Nature, thrô Decay,
Doth feeble, weak, inglorious Births display;
Robb'd of her pristine store, the spirits fled,
The shortliv'd shadows withered Look and dead.
But yet the greatest and worst part of Woe,
Unhappy Man unto Himself doth owe!
We by our Vice our Natures do deprave,
We by Intemperance make too soon our Grave.
Passions do Knowledge blast and Reason blind,
And wear at once our Body and our Mind.
No wise designs for future times we lay,
Confin'd to the small Compass of to day.
Nature hath made us Wretched, but We more;
Fate curses us, and we add to the store.
Woes from our selves, or outward Causes, bred
With our own hands We pull down on our head.
A Vertuous Life would all these ills remove;
Our Nature, Years, and Knowledge, would improve;
Would render our short Lives more blest, and fair,
Then theirs, that did so many Ages wear.
This Life's in order to an other State,
The End and Crown doth upon Death await:
The Way to Happiness is thrô that Gate.
And in our Life it matters not to tell,
How many Years we've lived, but how Well.
In Time, in Place, and in our Selves accurs'd,
In the gross Lees o'th' Elements do dwell,
With nauseous Air and putrid Matter swell:
A Place, refined Souls would think an Hell.
Where old Decrepit Nature, thrô Decay,
Doth feeble, weak, inglorious Births display;
Robb'd of her pristine store, the spirits fled,
The shortliv'd shadows withered Look and dead.
But yet the greatest and worst part of Woe,
Unhappy Man unto Himself doth owe!
We by our Vice our Natures do deprave,
We by Intemperance make too soon our Grave.
Passions do Knowledge blast and Reason blind,
And wear at once our Body and our Mind.
No wise designs for future times we lay,
Confin'd to the small Compass of to day.
Nature hath made us Wretched, but We more;
Fate curses us, and we add to the store.
30
With our own hands We pull down on our head.
A Vertuous Life would all these ills remove;
Our Nature, Years, and Knowledge, would improve;
Would render our short Lives more blest, and fair,
Then theirs, that did so many Ages wear.
This Life's in order to an other State,
The End and Crown doth upon Death await:
The Way to Happiness is thrô that Gate.
And in our Life it matters not to tell,
How many Years we've lived, but how Well.
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