EPISTLE THE THIRD. to LORENZO

Nor to the fount of Hippocrene, Nor groves of laurel, ever green, Nor where the wanton Graces stray, With flowers is strew'd the muse's way. Lorenzo, no, I more rejoice At Reason's rough & manly voice Than at the sprightliest, softest airs That ever tickled Fancy's cars; Tho' senseless Echo found them sweet, And bade the public voice repeat.

Lorenzo, systems throw'n aside, Be Reason, then, our honest guide; The guide, not only to the mind In Science deep or sense refin'd; But to the plain and honest giv'n The first, best, artless gift of Heav'n Reason, that sees not but the sense Of Ciceronian Eloquence. The limits of our Reason known, To Heav'n resign it's honour'd throne: On humbler wings, but rise to know Thy Heav'n on Earth, thy God below: Content to trace, from Nature's laws, Th' effects of an abstracted cause; The Cause of all th' effects we see; The all we mean by deity.

Adapted thus Enquiry's plan To truths as relative to Man; Know Nature's law no less extends To Physical than moral ends. What moves the fix'd mechanic pow'r, To shed the soft refreshing show'r, That, in the womb of teeming Earth, It's atoms quickens into birth, Doth in the moral scene connect The cause & consequent effect. Hence vice the source of human woe, As springs of streams that from them flow, On virtue happiness depends, As matter to the centre tends. Nor less capricious, to the sense, Physicks, indeed, than Providence.

Conceive not then, as skepticks dream, That nature's an imperfect scheme: Because, perplex'd with grief & pain, Man covets perfect bliss in vain. Say'st thou that Man the work of Heav'n, To him if imperfection's giv'n, Imperfect must that system be Whose Lord a being weak as he. Lorenzo, let not words deceive, All imperfection's relative: For of perfection absolute All Nature is, beyond dispute: For all from God itself derives; And all is perfect God contrives. Man, surely, perfect, then, you'll cry. As Man, most perfect, I reply: The Creature of his maker's will, But form'd his pleasure to fulfill, Design'd, in wide Creation's plan To fill the place & act as Man. For, doth capacity t'improve Perfection positive remove? As well imperfect might'st thou say The rising sun, at dawn of day, Since with superior heat & light It blazes in meridian height. Form'd with progressive powers to rise, In this ev'n man's perfection lies: Perfect, as such, humanity, Howe'er degraded in degree.

Yet wilt thou say "is man consin'd "To fill the place by Heav'n assign'd, "Impossible to rise or fall; "Why feels he misery at all? Another question answers this. What title have mankind to Bliss? Correct Ideas let us gain: Say, what the misery of pain? In vain, Lorenzo, dost thou here Affected Stoicism fear. None feels more tenderly than I: Mine the soft heart & wat'ry eye, The sanguine hopes, the needless fears, Yet unsubdued by sense or years. Yet Ah! how little understood Mankind's imaginary good. To Heav'n my grateful vows be paid That Man in human Frailty made; That grief & ignorance my lot; In joy & Literature forgot; Or best remember'd, in the taste They give t'improvement's rich repast. No transport e'er had fir'd my breast, If born of Sciences possess'd, As when, by native genius fir'd, To early knowledge I aspir'd; By slow degrees instructed grew, As Nature open'd to my view; To the weak eye as Hope was giv'n, Hope! that directs the soul to Heav'n.

Hence, tho' no Stoick, I conceive All joy and pain comparative. The glow of Health the bliss of ease Had never boasted charms to please, Nor cordial draught nor downy bed Had e'er reviv'd the drooping head, Had sickness pale & trembling grief Ne'er wish'd for wearied eyes, relief.

See Belmont, on the sof;a laid: What racking Pains his limbs invade! Take half his Gout; the respite giv'n He calls a blissful taste of Heav'n. Give but a Youth, dispersing Wealth, Who riots on the bloom of Health, That blissful part which yet remains; And his were Hell's distracting pains; Pains which no aggravation know! And yet, so relative our woe, Inflict them when, by Chloe's kiss, The am'rous Youth dissolves in bliss, Ev'n these distracting pains were worse, A mortal's most embitter'd curse. In mental sorrows, thus our grief Seeks but comparative releif: The trifling cares that you despise To some momentous miseries. Ah me! what threat'ning danger nigh? Why swells the tear from Delia's eye? Ah whence proceeds this sad distress? From th' insignificance of dress. Thus ev'n to circumstance we owe The difference of bliss & woe; Pleasure & pain, as light & shade, By one the other still display'd. O what capricious joy & strife Attend the various scenes of Life! To wield the Scythe, with sweaty brow, To turn the soil, beneath the plough, To sow in hope & reap in joy Thine Labour! is the sweet employ: Stranger to hope, from want secure, Life's easy burthen to endure, To eat the grape nor prune the vine, Laborious Idleness! is thine. Yet Idleness of Care complains, And Labour quarrels with it's pains.

How sunk & terrible to thee The hollow eye of Poverty, While Villius meets her with a smile, And sings or whistles all the while; Tho' worn his hands, perplex'd his head, He relishes the sweets of bread, And many a time, in pleasant rue, Dances for joy, without a shoe.

Nor less thy woes, nor more thy joy; Since equal cares thy peace destroy; Since wanting ne'er, thou ne'er hast tried Th' effects of being satisfied; In Plenty little more enjoy'd Than the dull bliss of being cloy'd: The child of Penury but Ease, As of satiety disease: Disease, that takes our lives by Stealth And makes a beggary of Wealth. When Fortune made thee rich & gay; It gave th' anxiety for play; Bade, with thy Hawk, thine acres fly; Thy freehold totter with the die. Not greater care poor Villius knows; As Blest in nothing he can lose.

Thus Plenty, giving bread more white, But steals the whet of Appetite: A Blessing, plainly, half-accurst, That gives me wine but steals my thirst!

Lorenzo farther might we go, And prove still nearer bliss & woe, To each inseparably join'd; Alternate regents in the mind: Yet so precarious in their reign; Bliss tyrannizes into pain; And when to cruel pain we bow, It's rod grows light, we know not how.

The tension of th' extended nerve, Say Physiologists, may serve This seeming paradox t'explain; Th' affinity of Joy & pain. As strung the Harp with trembling Wire, With Nerves so strung the human lyre, In healthful concord tun'd, they say, Pleasures harmonious Concert play. But, if their tension more or less, From Passion, sickness or distress, Most tremblingly alive all o'er, The strings, in discord, charm no more; But, jarring, plays th' ungrateful strain, With harpy-singers, deaf'ning Pain. Deduce we, then, Lorenzo, hence That joys & pains are modes of sense, As tunes in musick, where each note The simple Gamut has by rote, And, adventitiously combin'd, Please or displease but as they're join'd.

Should also passion, sense or art Wind up too high the nervous part, The tuneful notes in noise expire, Or breaking strings unman the Lyre. For as, excess of Joy or Grief Finds in a tear the same releif; The rapture of Cleora's kiss Inflicts the racking pain of bliss: Th' effect the same, while both destroy, Exquisite pain extatic joy! Theme of continual dispute! No relative is absolute: No Error, such conceiv'd by Man, A blunder is in Nature's plan; Nor dare we impiously pretend Ills absolute from God descend.

The Question old unanswer'd lies. From whence did moral evil rise? Thou say'st, if pow'r to stand was giv'n, Man had not fell, the care of Heav'n, No tempter known to lead to vice, Serpent nor Eve in Paradise. Lorenzo, in the pride of sense, Instruction is impertinence: She therefore, daughter of the wife, Hath long been shelter'd in disguise; Ent'ring, beneath the mask of Sport, The presence, tho forbid the Court; So fond with young delight to stray, And moralize the wanton's play, That ev'n her precepts still prevail In ev'ry sav'rite Gossip's tale. Yet so that those, her arts would learn, May th' allegory's face discern: The moral, then, from Tales deduct, And let Philosophy instruct. Here the grand Error that we make, Morals for Physicals we take; Like those half mad, amphibious wits, Who jumble, in their learned fits, Effects & causes, each for either, God, man, Heav'n, Earth & all together Fire, spirit, virtue, mixture rare! With darkness soluble in air. To Hutchinsonian Idiots leave, What none but Idiots can conceïve: Nor think thou moral ill exists, And battles in Creation's lists, A formal Enemy to man, Since Nature's monarchy began; A Being Physical or Pow'r, Active poor mortals to devour. For 'tis impossible a cause Should counter-act Creation's Laws; As one or other must prevail, And one, or both together, fail. Beleive me, then, what Ill we call Is no abstracted cause at all: For, stript Creation of mankind, No moral ill were left behind: Owing to th' human breast it's rise For man's first moral action vice.

Lorenzo, state the matter clear. Be pain & pleasure strangers here: Strangers to pleasure & to pain, Induce what motives to complain! For had we ne'er been griev'd or pain'd Of vice we never had complain'd. Suppose we, then, in Nature's plan T'exist the microcosm of man; Asleep in senseless matter's arms, Which perfect rest nor grieves nor charms: Should Heav'n a conscious mind inspire, Where reason checks & passions sire, Nor pain inflict nor pleasure give, But wake the form alone to live. Unnerv'd by Hope, unaw'd by fear, Alike from all reflections clear, Suppose to action, then, consign'd This naked, unaffected mind. Lorenzo, with precision, hence Let us infer the consequence.

Behold the source of moral ill, The prior agent was the will; Reason without the pow'r to act To censure or advise a fact, As by Experience nought it knew Of good or bad, or false or true: For Reason it's conclusions draws From similar effect & cause: No instinct, faculty or sense That promptly dictates innocence; That bids us Virtue's steps pursue, Or points to bliss it never knew. For, giving reason, then had Heav'n No less than actual pleasure giv'n. This not suppos'd— hence Reason's use Some known effect must introduce.

Now if as innate we maintain A love of bliss & hate of Pain, Directed as the passions fir'd, The will to pleasure first aspir'd: If Pleasure was the point attain'd Of Pain an equal sense was gain'd: As the first tree of Knowledge bore Of good & evil equal store: For, when the mind one pleasure knew, It's state of perfect rest withdrew: No Neutral sense it might retain, As less than pleasure, now, was pain.

Thus, felt th' initiated mind The sting which pleasure left behind, And Reason did to act commence On th' information of the sense. If justly then we're taught to know Vice as the precedent of woe, What deeds from Passion take their rise Must, needs, in consequence, be vice.

In guilt original involv'd, Here, see the Mystery resolv'd. To the first man, no more confin'd Than passions found in ev'ry mind Is the first cause of grief & pain, And Vice's hatred, horrid train. As Man's the source, so Man's the end. Ourselves our Crimes alone offend. Is Heav'n's premeditated woe? Heav'n needs no friend nor fears a foe; Has no vindictive rage in store, For it's own sake, on man to pour; Blest in himself th' almighty Cause, Or kept or broken human laws. For know, vain man, no act of thine Renders defective God's design: No pow'r to human frailty giv'n To controvert the will of Heav'n. Presume not at so high a price To rate th' iniquity of Vice: Nor let the vainly-virtuous fool, Projecting Heav'n by line & rule, Sore-lash'd & wasting to the bone, The crime of healthier days t'atone, Conceive, by want of rest or meat, Th' eternal purpose to defeat. Presume not at so low a rate To value the decrees of Fate.

Ev'n such, in Physics, are the Fools, Puzzled beyond the maze of schools, Who boast a pow'r, or, pow'r to form, Would Nature's fortress take, by storm; With martial engines, stranger, far, Than those of Archimedes were; Madmen Monro could never cure Of Circles & their quadrature, Of thinking drunk Creation reels, Like a slung Coach, on springs & wheels.

Yet say not, therefore, Guilt is free; Or promise Crimes impunity: Since 'tis ordain'd the sting of woe To bliss inordinate shall grow; That each false pleasure bring it's pain, And ev'ry Vice it's kindred train.

Lorenzo, evil understood, How near the source of moral good! 'Twas Reason taught us this to prize: For Reason virtue did devise.

Know pleasures, which the passions taste, In haste are won, are lost in haste, While their equivalent of pains, Long, the tenacious mind retains. Hence, did not Reason check below, The will would work continual woe. Reason! bestow'd a common friend, Not to keep faultless, but amend; To lead self-love, a glutton blind, Which, else, nor hopes nor fears could bind; To give it's scene of action light, And check each sensual appetite: The bliss of social love to share, And passion's blunders to repair. Caelestial Guide! O give my Youth T'enjoy thy lovelier sister Truth; For whose Embrace my vows I pay, In ardent sighs, th' enquiring day: Nor, when enquiring day is o'er, Cease by the midnight lamp to pore O'er the dull tale or tedious page Of saint, or more laborious sage; Happy if saint or sage could tell Where I with her might ever dwell. With thee, bright Truth! for whom alone My Genius for the verse be known; Content for thee to change the bays, The Poet's for thy Lover's praise.