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The World is made for the bold impious Man,
Who ftops at nothing, fiezes all he can;
Justice to Merit does weak Aid afford,
She trufts her Ballance, and neglects her Sword :
Virtue is nice to take what's not her own,
And while the long consults, the Prize is gone. Dryd. Auren.
Great Minds, like Heav'n, are pleas'd with doing Good,
Tho' the ungrareful Subjects of their Favours
Are barren in Return. Virtue does still
With Scorn the mercenary World regard,
Where abje&t Souls do Good, and hope Reward :
Above the worthless Trophies Men can raise,
She seeks not Honours, Wealth, nor airy Praise,
? But with herself, herself the Goddess pays:
Row. Tamerl. But few are virtuous when Reward's away.
Dryd. For who would Virtue for herself regard, Or wed, without the Portion of Reward ? Dryd. Juu.
Hence with this peevish Virtue, 'tis a Cheat, And they who taught it first were Hypocrites. Otw. Orgh.
Would'st thou co Honours and Preferments climb ?
Be bold in Mischief, dare some mighty Crime;
Which Dangers, Death, or Banishment deserves,
For Virtue is but dryly prais'd and starves :
Great Men to great Crimes owe their Plate imbofs'd,
Fair Palaces, and Furniture of Cost,
And high Commands: A sneaking Sin is loft. Dryd. Juu.
Torment of Mind ! O feeble Virtue, hence :
I blow thee from the Palace to the Cottage,
To build in Hearts of Hinds ; bless cheir rude Hands,
With thy lean Recompence of endless Labour :
For me, since I have burft th'ungrateful Chain, * That held me to thee like a shackled Slave,
I will enjoy whate'er the Gods have given,
And surfeir on the Beauties of Semandra.
If when a Crown and Mistress are in Place,
Virtue incrudes with her lean holy Face;
Virtue's then mine, and I not Virtue's Foe:
Why does the coine where the bas nought to do?
Let her with Anch'rers, not with Lovers lie,
Statesmen and they keep better Company. Dryd. Cong of Gran.
Virtue and Vice are never in one Soul; A Man is wholiy wife, or wholly is a Fool. Dryd. Perf.
How Itrange a Riddle Virtue is ! They never miss it, who possess it not ; And they who have it, ever find a Wane. Roch. Valenz.
Virçue, the more it is expos'd, Like purest Linnen, laid in open Air,
Will bleach the more, and whiten to the View. Dryd. Amphit.
For Blessings eyer wait on virtuous Deeds; And tho' a late, a sure Reward succeeds.
Cong. Mourn. Bride.
USURPER. See King, Tyrant.
He who by Force a Scepter does obtain,
Shews he can govern that which he could gain.
Right comes of Course, whate'er he was before,
Murder and Usurpation are no more.
As when the Sea breaks o'er its Bounds,
And overflows the level Grounds ;
Those Banks and Dams, that like a Screen
Did keep it out, now keeps it in:
So when tyrannick Usurpation,
Invades the freedom of a Nation,
Those Laws o'th'Land that were intended
To keep it out, are made defend it.
A Scepter snatch'd with an unruly Hand,
Must be as boist'rously maintain'd as gain'd:
And he that stands upon a llipp'ry Place,
Makes nice of no vile Hold to stay him up. Shak, K. John.
Dare to be great without a guilty Crown,
View it, and lay the bright Temptation down.
'Tis base to fieże on all because you may ;
That's Empire, that which I can give away :
There's Joy, when, to wild Will you Laws prescribe,
When you bid Fortune carry back her Bribe.
A Joy which none but greatest Minds can taste,
A Fame which will to endless Ages last.
And few Usurpers to the Shades descend,
By a dry Death, or with a quiet End.
Dryd. Juv. Unhappy State of such as wear a Crown, Fortune does seldom lay them gently down.
VULCAN. See Cyclops.
In Ausonian Land
Men call'd him Mulciber; and how he fell
From Heav'n they fabled, thrown by angry Jove
Sheer o'er the chryftal Battlements : From Morn
To Noon he fell,' from Noon to dewy Eve,
A Summer's Day ; and with the setting Sun
Drope from the Zenith, like a falling Star,
On Lemnos, th’Ægean Ille.
Me by the Heel he drew :
And o'er Heav'n's Battlements with Fury threw.
rewi All Day I fell : My Flight at Morn begun, And ended not but with the setting Sun. Pitch'd on my Head, at length the Lemnian Ground, (Dryd. Hom. Receiv'd my batter'd Skull, the Sinthians heal’d my Wound.
WANT. Want is a bitter and a hateful Good. Because its Virtues are not understood : Yet many things, imposible to Thought, Have been by Need, to full Perfection brought. The Daring of the Soul proceeds from thence, Sharpness of Wit, and a dive Diligence. Prudence at once and Fortitude it gives, And, if in Patience taken, mends our Lives : For e'en that Indigence which brings me low, Makes me my felf, and him above to know. A Good which none would challenge, few would chuse, A fair Poffeffion, which Mankind refuse. If we from Wealth to Poverty descend, (of Bathes Tale. Want gives to know the Flatc'rer from the Friend. Dryd. Wife
Want is the Scorn of ev'ry wealthy Fool,
And Wie in Rags is turn'd to Redicule.
Famine is in thy Cheeks,
Need and Oppression staring in thy Looks,
Contempt and Beggery hang on thy Back. Shak. Rom, Jul.
Oh! we must change the Scene,
In which the pals d Delights of Love were tasted.
The Poor sleep litcle, we must learn to watch
Our Labours late, and early ev'ry Morning,
Midst Winter Frosts, sparingly clad and fed,
Rife to our Toils, and drudge away the Day.
Oh Belvidera !
Want, worldly Want, that hungry meagre Fiend
Is at our Heels, and chases us in View.
Canft thou bear Cold and Hunger ? Can thefe Limbs,
bam'd for the render Offices of Love,
Endure the bitter Gripes of fmarting Poverty?
When in a Bed of Straw we shrink together,
And the bleak Winds shall whifile round our Heads,
Wilt thou chen talk to me thus?
Thus hush my Cares, and shelter me with Love ?
Oh! I will love chee, ev’n in Madness love thee,
Tho' my distracted Senses should forsake me !
· Tho'the bare Earth be all our resting Place,
Irs Roots our Food, some Cliff our Habitation;
I'll make this Arm a Pillow for thy Head,
And as thou fighing ly'it, and swellid with Sorrow,
Creep to thy Bofom, pour the Balm of Love
Into thy Soul, and kiss thee to thy Rest. Otw. Ven. Pris.
Oh we will bear our wayward Fafe together,
And ne'er krow Comfort more.
Otw. Ven. Pres:
Lord! what an am'rous thing is Want !
How Debts and Mortgages enchant!
What Graces must that Lady have,
That can from Execution fave ?
What Charms, that can reverse Extent,
And null Decree and Exigent?
What magical Attracts and Graces,
That can redeem from Scire Facias ?
From 'Bonds and Statutes can discharge,
And from Contempts of Courts inlarge ?
These are the highest Excellencies,
Of all our true or false Pretences;
And you would damn your felves, and swear
As much t'an Hostess Dowager,
Grown fat and pursy by Retail
Of Pots of Beer and bottled Ale,
And find her fitter for your Turn,
For Fat is wondrous apt to burn;
Who at your Flames would soon take Fire,
Relent, and melt to your Desire;
And, like a Candle in the Socket,
Diffolve her Graces int'your Pocket,
WAR. See Battle, Fighting, Joufts, Mars, Soldier.
Now impious Arms from ev'ry Part resound :
The peaceful Peasant to the War is pressid,
The Fields lie fallow in inglorious Reft.
The crooked Scythes are streighten'd into Swords.
Perfidious Mars long plighted Leagues divides,
And o'er the wasted World in Triumph rides. Dryd. Virg.
The peaceful Cities,
Lull'd in their Ease, and undisturb'd before,
Are all on Fire ; and some with studious Care,
'Their reftiff Sreeds in fandy Plains prepare.
Some their soft Limbs in painful Marches try,
And War is all their Wish, and Arms the gen'ral Cry.
Part scour the rusty Shields with Seam, and Part
New grind the blunted Ax, and point the Dart.
With Joy they view the waving Ensigns fly,
And hear the Trumpet's Clangor pierce the Sky,
Some hammer Helmets for the fighting Field,
Some twine young Sallows to support the Shield.
The Corslet fome, and some the Cuishes mould,
With Silver plated, and with ductile Gold.
The rustick Honours of the Scyche and Share,
Give Place to Swords and Plumes, the Pride of War.
Old Falchions are new-temper'd in the Fires ;
The founding Trumpet ev'ry Soul inspires.
The Word is given, with eager Hafte they lace
The shining Head-piece, and the Shield embrace.
The neighing Steeds are to the Chariot tyd,
The trusty Weapon sits on ev'ry Side.
As Legions in the Field their Front display,
To try the Fortune of some doubtful Day ;
And move to meer their Foes with sober Pace,
Scri& to their Figure, tho' in wider Space,
Before the Battle joynis, while from afar,
The Field yet glitters with the Pomp of War;
And equal Mars, like an imparţial Lord,
Leaves all to Fortune and the Dint of Sword. Dryd. Virg.
An iron Harvest on the Field appears,
Of Lances, burnifh'd Shields, and bristling Spears :
Throng'd Helms in long embatteld Ranks dispos’d,
The louring Front of horrid War disclos'd.
The neighb'ring Plain with Arms is cover'd o'er,
The Vale an iron Harveft seems to yield
Of thick-sprung Lances in a waving Field,
The polish'd Steel gleems terribly from far;
And ev'ry Moment nearer shews the War. Dryd. Aur.
The various Glories of their Arms combine,
And in one fearful dazling Medley joyn.
The Air above, and all the fields beneach
Shine with a bright Variety of Death.
The Sun starts back to see the Fields display
Their rival Lustre, and terrestrial Day.
Åre bright with flaming Swords and brazen Shields;
A shining Harvest either Hoft displays,
And shoots against the Sun with equal Rays. Dryd. Virg.
All in a Moment rose
A Forest huge of Spears; and thronging Helms
Appear'd, and ferry'd Shields in thick Array,
Of Depth immeasurable ; ftrait out flew
Millions of fiaming Swords; the suddain Blaze
Far round illumin' Hell. They fierce with grasped Arms
Clash'd on their founding Shields the Din of War,
Hurling Defiance tow'rds the Vault of Heav'n.
It was the Time
When creeping Murmur. and the poring Dark
Fill the wide Vessel of the Universe:
From Camp to Camp, through the foul Womb of Night,
The Hum of either Army stilly founds.
Fire answers Fire, and through their paly Flames