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checks my spleen, yet scorn denies The tears a passage through my swelling eyes: To laugh or weep at sins, might idly show Unheedful passion, or unfruitful woe. Satire! arise, and try thy sharper ways, If ever satire cur'd an old disease. Is not Religion (Heaven-descended dame) As worthy all our soul's devoutest flame, As moral Virtue in her early sway, When the best Heathens saw by doubtful day? Are not the joys, the promis'd joys above, As great and strong to vanquish earthly love, As earthly glory, fame, respect, and show, As all rewards their virtue found below? Alas! Religion proper means prepares, These means are ours, and must its end be theirs? And shall thy father's spirit meet the sight Of heathen sages cloth'd in heavenly light, Whose merit of strict life, severely suited To reason's dictates, may be faith imputed, Whilst thou, to whom he taught the nearer road, Art ever banish'd from the blest abode?

Oh! if thy temper such a fear can find, This fear were valour of the noblest kind.