Page:The Bible of Nature, and Substance of Virtue.djvu/40

For rising beings still the old pursue,
And take their place, old die, and frame the new:
But nothing sinks to hell, and sulphurous flames,
The seeds remain to make the future frames:
All which shall yield to fate as well as thou,
And things fell heretofore e'en just as now.
And still decaying things shall new produce;
For life's not given to possess, but use.
Besides, what dreadful things in death appear,
What tolerable cause for all our fear?
What sad, vhat dismal thoughts do bid us weep?
Is't not a quiet state, and soft as sleep.
The furies, Cerberus, black hell, and flames,
Are airy fancies all, mere empty names.
But whilst we live, the fear of dreadful pains
For wicked deeds, the prison, scourge, and chains,
The wheel, the block, the fire, affright the mind,
Strike deep, and leave a constant sting behind.
Nay, those not felt; the guilty soul presents
These dreadful shapes, and still herself torments,
Scourges, and stings; nor doth she seem to know
An end of these, but fears more fierce below,
Eternal all. Thus fancied pains we feel,
And live as wretched here, as if in hell.
Consider, mighty kings in pomp and state,
Fall, and ingloriously submit to fate.
Scipio, that scourge of Carthage, now the grave
Keeps prisoner, like the meanest common slave.
Nay, greatest wits, and poets too, that give
Eternity to others, cease to live.
Homer, their prince, is nothing now but fame,
A lasting, far diffus'd, but empty name.
Nay, Epicurus' race of life is run,
The man of wit, who other men out-shone,
As far as meaner stars the mid-day sun.
Then how dar'st thou repine to die, and grieve,
Thou meaner soul, thou dead, e'en whilst alive?
That sleep'st and dream'st the most of life away:
Thy night is full as rational as thy day;
Still vext with cares, who never understood
The principles of ill, nor use of good.