Page:Poetical Works of John Oldham.djvu/250

240 These with Egyptian rigour us enslave, And govern with unlimited command; They make us endless toil pursue, And still their doubled tasks renew, To push on our too hasty fate, and build our grave, Or which is worse, to keep us from the promised land. Nor may we think our freedom to retrieve, We struggle with our heavy yoke in vain: In vain we strive to break that chain, Unless a miracle relieve; Unless the Almighty wand enlargement give, We never must expect delivery, Till death, the universal writ of ease, does set us free. Some, sordid avarice in vassalage confines, Like Roman slaves condemned to th' mines; These are in its harsh Bridewell lashed and punishèd, And with harsh labour scarce can earn their bread. Others, ambition, that imperious dame, Exposes cruelly, like gladiators, here Upon the world's great theatre. Through dangers and through blood they wade to fame, To purchase grinning honour and an empty name, And some by tyrant lust are captive led, And with false hopes of pleasure fed; 'Till, tired with slavery to their own desires, Life's o'ercharg'd lamp goes out, and in a snuff expires. Consider we the little arts of vice, The stratagems and artifice Whereby she does attract her votaries: All those allurements, and those charms, Which pimp transgressors to her arms, Are but foul paint, and counterfeit disguise, To palliate her own concealed deformities, And for false empty joys betray us to true solid harms.