PART III. TERPSICHORE: Or, The Moderate

Descend, Astraea, from above, Where Jove's celestial daughters rove, And deign once more to bring with thee, Thy earth-deserting family, Calm Temperance, and Patience mild, Sweet Contemplation's heav'nly child, Reflection firm, and Fancy free, Religion pure, and Probity, Whilst all the Heliconian throng Shall join TERPSICHORE in song.

Ere man great Reason's lord was made, Or the world's first foundations laid, As high in their divine abodes, Consulting sate the mighty gods, Jove on the chaos looking down, Spoke thus from his imperial throne, "Ye deities and potentates, "Aerial pow'rs, and heav'nly states, "Lo, in that gloomy place below, "Where darkness reigns and discord now, "There a new world shall grace the skies, "And a new creature form'd arise, "Who shall partake of our perfections, "And live and act by our directions, "(For the chief bliss of any station, "Is naught without communication) "Let therefore ev'ry godhead give "What this new being should receive, "But care important must be had, "To mingle well of good and bad, "That by th' allaying mixture, he "May not approach to deity.

The sovereign spake, the gods agree, And each began in his degree. Behind the throne of Jove there stood Two vessels of celestial wood, Containing just two equal measures, One fill'd with pains, and one with pleasures; The Gods drew out from both of these, And mix'd 'em with their essences, (Which essences are heav'nly still, When undisturb'd by nat'ral ill, And man to moral good is prone, Let but the moral pow'rs alone, And not pervert 'em by tuition, Or conjure 'em by superstition) Hence man partakes an equal share, Of pleasing thoughts and gloomy care, And pain and pleasure e'er shall be, As PLATO says, in company. Receive the one, and soon the other Will follow to rejoin his brother. Those who with pious pain pursue Calm virtue by her sacred clue, Will surely find the mental treasure Of virtue, only real pleasure: Follow the pleasurable road, That fatal Siren reckons good, 'Twill lead thee to the gloomy cell, Where pain and melancholy dwell. Health is the child of abstinence, Disease, of a luxurious sense; Despair, that hellish fiend, proceeds From loosen'd thoughts, and impious deeds, And the sweet offspring of content, Flows from the mind's calm government. Thus, man, thy state is free from woe, If thou would'st chuse to make it so. Murmur not then at Heav'n's decree, The gods have giv'n thee liberty, And plac'd within thy conscious breast, Reason, as an unerring test, And should'st thou fix on misery, The sault is not in them, but thee.