Page:The poetical works of William Cowper (IA poeticalworksof00cowp).pdf/152

68 But he can draw a pattern, make a tart, And has the ladies etiquette by heart. Go fool, and arm in arm with Clodio, plead Your cause, before a bar you little dread; But know, the law that bids the drunkard die, Is far too just to pass the trifler by. Both baby featured and of infant size, Viewed from a distance, and with heedless eyes, Folly and innocence are so alike, The diff'rence, though essential, fails to strike. Yet folly ever has a vacant stare, A simp'ring count'nance, and a trifling air; But innocence, sedate, serene, erect, Delights us, by engaging our respect. Man, nature's guest by invitation sweet, Receives from her, both appetite and treat, But if he play the glutton and exceed, His benefactress blushes at the deed. For nature, nice, as lib'ral to dispense, Made nothing but a brute the slave of sense. Daniel ate pulse by choice, example rare! Heav'n blessed the youth, and made him fresh and fair. Gorgonius sits abdominous and wan, Like a fatsquab upon a Chinese fan. He snuffs far off the anticipated joy, Turtle and ven'son all his thoughts employ, Prepares for meals, as jockeys take a sweat, Oh nauseous! an emetic for a whet! Will providence o'erlook the wasted good? Temperance were no virtue if he could. That pleasures, therefore, or what such we call, Are hurtful, is a truth confessed by all. And some that seem to threaten virtue less, Still hurtful, in the abuse, or by the excess. Is man then only for his torment plac'd, The centre of delights he may not taste? Like fabled Tantalus condemned to hear The precious stream still purling in his ear, Lip-deep in what he longs for, and yet curst With prohibition and perpetual thirst? No, wrangler—destitute of shame and sense, The precept that injoins him abstinence, Forbids him none but the licentious joy, Whose fruit, though fair, tempts only to destroy. Remorse, the fatal egg by pleasure laid In every bosom where her nest is made, Hatched by the beams of truth denies him rest, And proves a raging scorpion in his breast. No pleasure? Are domestic comforts dead? Are all the nameless sweets of friendship fled? Has time worn out, or fashion put to shame Good sense, good health, good conscience, and good fame?