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 EPISTLE TO CEAN BERMUDEZ,

ON THE VAIN DESIRES AND STUDIES OF MEN.

, Bermudo, bid thy soul beware:

Thee raging Fortune watches to ensnare;

And, lulling others' hopes in dreams supine,

A fell assault she meditates on thine.

The cruel blow which suffer'd from her rage

Thy poor estate will not her wrath assuage,

Till from thy breast her fury may depose

The blissful calm to innocence it owes.

Such is her nature, that she loathes the sight

Of happiness for man in her despite.

Thus to thine eyes insidious she presents

The phantasies of good, with which she paints

The road to favour, and would fain employ

Her arts thy holds of virtue to destroy.

Ah! heed her not. See her to rob thee stand

Ev'n of the happiness now in thy hand.

'Tis not of her; she cannot it bestow:

She makes men fortunate;—but happy? No.