Wonders at Clodio's follies, in a tone As tragical, as others at his own. He cannot drink five bottles, bilk the score, But he can draw a pattern, make a tart, Go, fool; and, arm in arm with Clodio, plead But know, the law that bids the drunkard die Is far too just to pass the trifler by. Both baby-featur'd, and of infant fize, View'd from a distance, and with heedlefs eyes, Folly and innocence are fo alike, The diff'rence, though effential, fails to ftrike. Yet folly ever has a vacant ftare, A fimp'ring count'nance, and a trifling air; But innocence, fedate, ferene, erect, Delights us, by engaging our refpect. Man, nature's gueft by invitation fweet, 1 But, if he play the glutton and exceed, His benefactress blushes at the deed. For nature, nice, as lib'ral to dispense, Made nothing but a brute the flave of sense. Daniel ate pulse by choice-example rare! Heav'n blefs'd the youth, and made him fresh and fair. Gorgonius fits, abdominous and wan, Like a fat fquab upon a Chinese fan: Turtle and ven'fon all his thoughts employ; Prepares for meals as jockies take a sweat, Oh, naufeous!an emetic for a whet! Will Providence o'erlook the wafted good? That pleasures, therefore, or what fuch we call, Are hurtful, is a truth confess'd by all. And fome, that seem to threaten virtue less, Like fabled Tantalus, condemn'd to hear In every bofom where her nest is made, Hatch'd by the beams of truth, denies him reft, Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame, All these belong to virtue, and all prove That virtue has a title to your love. Have you no touch of pity, that the poor Stand starv'd at your inhofpitable door? Or, if yourself, too fcantily fupplied, Need help, let honeft industry provide. Pleasure, admitted in undue degree, Enslaves the will, nor leaves the judgment free. 'Tis not alone the grape's enticing juice Unnerves the moral pow'rs, and mars their use; And woman, lovely woman, does the fame. Of fome ungovern'd paffion ev'ry hour, Finds, by degrees, the truths that once bore fway, So coin grows fmooth, in traffic current pass'd, Till Cæfar's image is effac'd at last. The breach, though small at firft, foon op'ning wide, In rushes folly with a full-moon tide. Then welcome errors, of whatever size, To juftify it by a thousand lies. As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, |