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'Tis not the prætor's province to bestow
True freedom ; nor to teach mankind to know
What to ourselves, or to our friends, we owe.
He could not set thee free from cares and strife,
Nor give the reins to a lewd vicious life:
As well he for an ass a harp might string,
Which is againft the reason of the thing;
For reason ftill is whispering in your ear,
Where you are sure to fail, th' attempt forbear.
No need of public fanctions this to bind,
Which Nature has implanted in the mind :
Not to pursue the work, to which we 're not defign'd.

Unskill'd in hellebore, if thou should't try
To mix it, and mistake the quantity,
The rules of physic would against thee cry.
The high-fhoe'd ploughman, should he quit the land,
To take the pilot's rudder in his hand,
Artless of stars, and of the moving fand,
The gods would leave him to the waves and wind,
And think all shame was lost in human kind,

Tell me, my friend, from whence hadft thou the

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So nicely to distinguish good from ill?"
Or by the found to judge of gold and brass,
What piece is tinker's metal, what will pass ?
And what thou art to follow, what to fly,
This to condemn, and that to ratify?
When to be bountiful, and when to fpare,
But never craving, or opprest with care ?



The baits of gifts, and money to despise,
And look on wealth with undesiring eyes ?
When thou canst truly call these virtues thine,
Be wise and free, by heaven's consent, and mine.

But thou, who lately, of the common strain,
Wert one of us, if still thou doit retain
The same ill habits, the same follies too,
Gloss’d over only with a faint-like show,
Then I resume the freedom which I gave,
Still thou art bound to vice, and still a llave.
Thou canst not wag my finger, or begin
“ The least fight motion, but it tends to fin.”

How's this ? Not wag thy finger, he replies ?
No, friend ; nor fuming gums, nor sacrifice,
Can ever make a madman free, or wise.
66 Virtue and vice are never in one soul:
“ A man is wholly wise, or wholly is a fool."
A heavy bumkin, taught with daily care,
Can never dance three steps with a becoming air.

In spite of this, wy freedom still remains.

Free! what, and fetter'd with so many chains ?
Canst thou no other master understand
Than him that freed thee by the prætor's wand ?
Should he, who was thy lord, command thee now,
With a harsh voice, and supercilious brow,
To fervile duties, thou would'ft fear no more ;
The gallows and the whip are out of door.


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But if thy paffions lord it'in thy breast,
Art thou not ftill a slave, and still opprest?
Whether alone, or in thy harlot's lap,
When thou would'st take a lazy morning's nap;
Up, up, says Avarice; thou snor'ít again,
Stretchest thy limbs, and yawn'st, but all in vain;
The tyrant Lycre no denial takes;
At his command th’ unwilling sluggard wakes :
What must I do? he cries': What ? says his lord :
Why, rife, make ready, and go ftreight abraod :
With fish, from Euxine seas, thy vefsel freight;
Flax, caftor, Coan wines, the precious weight
Of pepper, and Sabæan incense, take
With thy own hands, from the tir'd camel's back :
And with post-haste thy running markets make.
Be sure to turn the penny; lye and swear;
'Tis wholesome fin : but Jove, thou say’ft, will hear :
Swear, fool, or starve ; for the dilemma 's even :
A tradefman thou! and hope to go to heaven ?
Refoly'd for sea, the flaves they brogage pack,
Each saddled with his burden on his back :
Nothing retards thy voyage, now, unless
Thy other lord forbids, Voluptuousness:
And he may ask this civil question : Friend,
What dost thou make a fhip-board ? to what end?
Art thou of Bethlem's noble college free ?
Stark, staring mad, that thou would'st tempt the sea ?
Cubb’d in a cabbin, on a mattress laid,
On a brown george, with lowly swobbers fed,



Dead wine, that stinks of the borrachio, sup
From a foul jack, or greafy maple-cup?
Say, would'st thou bear all this, to raise thy store
From fix i'th' hundred, to fix hundred more?
Indulge, and to thy genius freely give ;
For, not to live at ease, is not to live;
Death stalks behind thee, and each flying hour
Does some loose remnant of thy life devour.
Live, while thou liv'it; for death will make us all
A name, a nothing but an old wife's tale.

Speak; wilt thou Avarice, or Pleasure, chuse
To be thy lord ? Take one, and one refuse.
But both, by turns, the rule of thee will have;
And thou, betwixt them both, wilt be a slave.

Nor think, when once thou hast resisted one,
That all thy marks of servitude are gone :
The struggling greyhound gnaws his leash in vain;
If, when 'tis broken, still he drags the chain.

Says Phædra to his man, Believe me, friend, To this uneasy love I'll put an end: Shall I run out of all? my friends disgrace, And be the first lewd unthrift of iny race ? Shall I the neighbours nightly rest invade At her deaf doors, with some vile serenade ? Well has thou freed thyself, his man replies, Go, thank the Gods, and offer sacrifice. Ah, says the youth, if we unkindly part, Will not the poor fond creature break her heart? Weak foul! and blindly to destruction led ! She break her heart! me 'll sooner break your hezd VOL. VII.

A a

She knows her man, and, when you rant and swear,
Can draw you to her, with a single hair.
But shall I not return? Now, when she sues !
Shall I my own, and her defires refuse?
şir, take your course: but my advice is plain :
Once freed, 'tis madness to resume


chain. Ay; there's the man, who, loos’d from lust and pelf, Less to the prætor owes, than to himself. But write him down a flave, who, humbly proud, With presents begs preferments from the crowd; That early suppliant, who falutes the tribes, And sets the mob to scramble for his bribes : That some old dotard, sitting in the sun, On holidays may tell, that such a feat was done : In future times this will be counted rare.

Thy superstition too may claim a share :
When flowers are strew'd, and lamps in order plac'd,
And windows with illuminations grac'd,
On Herod's day; when fparkling bowls go round,
And tunnies tails in favoury sauce are drown's,
1 hou mutterilt prayers obscene ; nor doit refufe
The fasts and fabbaths of the curtail'd Jews.
Then a crack'd egg-lhell thy sick fancy frights,
Besides the childish fear of walking sprights.
Of o'ergrown gelding priests thou art afraid ;
The timbrel, and the squintifego maid
Of Ifis, awe thee : left the Gods, for sin,
Should, with a swelling dropsy, stuff thy skin :
Unless three garlick-heads the curse avert,

stcu each mogn, devoutly, next thy heart.


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