In various forms the madd'ning Spirit moves,

This drinks and fights, another drinks and loves.

A bastard Zeal of different kinds it shows,

And now with rage, and now Religion glows;

The frantic Soul bright reason's path defies,

Now creeps on Earth, now triumphs in the Skies;

Swims in the seas of error and explores,

Through midnight mists, the fluctuating Shores;

From wave to wave in rocky Channel glides,

And sinks in woe, or on presumption slides;

In Pride exalted, or by Shame deprest,

An Angel-Devil, or a human-Beast.

Without a pilot who attempts to steer,

Has small discretion or has little care;

That pilot Reason, in the erring Soul,

Is lost, is blinded in the steaming Bowl,

Charm'd by its power, we cast our guide away,

And at the mercy of conjecture lay;

Discretion dies with reason, Revel wakes!

And o'er the head his fiery banners shakes.

With him come frenzy, folly and excess,

Blink-ey'd conceit and shallow emptiness;

At Folly's beck a train of Vices glide,

Murder in madness cloak'd, in choler, Pride;

Above, Impiety, with curses bound,

Lours at the skies, and whirls Damnation round.

Some rage, in all the strength of folly mad,

Some love stupidity, in silence clad,

Are never quarrelsome, are never gay,

But sleep and groan and drink the Night away;

Old Torpio nods, and, as the laugh goes round,

Grunts through the nasal Duct, and joins the sound;

Then sleeps again, and, as the liquors pass,

Wakes at the friendly Jog, and takes his Glass;

Alike to him who stands, or reels, or moves;

The elbow chair, good wine and Sleep he loves;

Nor cares of state disturb his easy head,

By grosser fumes and calmer follies fed;

Nor thoughts, of when, or where, or how to come,

The Canvass general, or the general Doom;

Extremes ne'er reach'd one passion of his Soul;

A villain tame, and an unmettled fool,

To half his Vices he has but pretence,

For they usurp the place of common sense;

To half his little Merits has no claim

But very Indolence has rais'd his name,

Happy in this, that under Satan's sway

His passions humble, but will not obey.

The Vicar at the table's front presides,

Whose presence a monastic life derides;

The reverend Wig, in sideway order plac'd,

The reverend Band, by rubric stains disgrac'd,

The leering Eye, in wayward circles roll'd,

Mark him the Pastor of a jovial Fold,

Whose various texts excite a loud applause,

Favouring the Bottle, and the good old Cause.

See! the dull smile which fearfully appears,

When gross Indecency her front uprears;

The joy conceal'd the fiercer burns within,

As masks afford the keenest gust to Sin;

Imagination helps the reverend Sire,

And spreads the sails of sub-divine desire.

But when the gay immoral joke goes round,

When Shame and all her blushing train are drown'd,

Rather than hear his God blasphem'd he takes

The last lov'd Glass, and then the board forsakes:

Not that Religion prompts the sober thought,

But slavish Custom has the practice taught.

Besides, this zealous son of warm devotion

Has a true levite Bias for promotion;

Vicars must with discretion go astray,

Whilst Bishops may be d——n'd the nearest way;

So puny robbers individuals kill,

When hector-Heroes murder as they will.

Good honest Curio elbows the [divine,]

And strives, a social sinner, how to shine;

The dull quaint tale is his, the lengthen'd tale,

That Wilton Farmers give you with their ale:

How midnight Ghosts o'er vaults terrific pass,

Dance o'er the Grave, and slide along the grass;

How Maids forsaken haunt the lonely wood,

And tye the Noose, or try the willow flood;

How rural Heroes overcame the giants,

And through the ramshorn trumpet blew defiance;

Or how pale Cicely, within the wood,

Call'd Satan forth and bargain'd with her blood.

These, honest Curio, are thine, and these

Are the dull Treasures of a brain at peace.

No wit intoxicates thy gentle skull,

Of heavy, native, [unwrought] folly full;

Bowl upon Bowl in vain exert their force;

The breathing Spirit takes a downward course,

Or, vainly soaring upwards to the head,

Meets an impenetrable tence of lead.

Hast thou, Oh Reader! search'd o'er gentle Gay,

Where various animals their powers display?

In one strange Group, a chattering race was hurl'd,

Led by the Monkey who had seen the world.

He, it is said, from woodland shepherds stole,

And went to Court, to greet each fellow fool.

Like him, Fabricio steals from guardian's side,

Swims not in [pleasure's] stream, but sips the tide;

}

He hates the Bottle, yet but thinks it right

}

To boast next day the honours of the night;

}

None like your Coward can describe a fight.

See him, as down the sparkling potion goes,

Labor to grin away the horrid dose;

In joy-feign'd gaze his misty eye-balls float,

Th' uncivil Spirit gurgling at his throat;

So looks dim Titan through a wintry scene,

And faintly cheers the woe-foreboding swain;

But now, Alas! the hour, th'increasing flood,

Rolls round and round, and cannot be withstood;

Thrice he essays to stop the ruby flow,

To stem its Force, and keep it still below;

In vain his Art, it comes! at [distance] gaze,

Ye stancher Sots, and be not near the place.

As when a flood from Ossa's pendant brow

Rolls rapid to its fellow streams below,

}

It moves tempest'ous down the Mountain's sides,

}

O'er lesser hills and vales like light'ning glides,

}

And o'er their beauties fall'n triumphant rides,

Each verdant spot and sunny bank defaces,

And forms a minor Ocean at its basis;

So from his rueful lips Fabricio pours,

With melancholy Force, the tinctur'd showers;

O'er the embroider'd vest they take their way,

And in the grave its tinsel honours lay.

No Nymph was there, to hold the helpless face,

Or save from ruin's spoil the luckless lace;

No guardian Fair, to turn the head aside

And to securer paths the torrent glide;

From silk to silk it drove its wayward Course,

And on the diamond buckle spent its Force.

Ah! gentle Fop! what luckless fate was thine

To sin through fashion, and in woe to shine.

But all our Numbers why should rascals claim[3]?

Rise, honest Muse, and sing a nobler name.

Pleas'd in his Eye good humour always smiles,

And Mirth unbought with strife the hour beguiles,

Who smoothed the frown on yonder surly brow?

From the dry Joke who bade gay Laughter flow?

Not of affected, empty rapture full,

Nor in proud Strain magnificently dull,

But gay and easy, giving without Art

Joy to each sense, and Solace to the heart.

Thrice happy Damon, able to pursue

What all so wish, but want the power to do.

No cares thy Head, no crimes thy Heart torment,

At home thou'rt happy, and abroad content;

Pleas'd with thyself, and therefore form'd to please,

With Moderation free, and gay with Ease,

Wise in a medium, just to an extreme,

"The soul of Humour, and the life of Whim,"

Plac'd from thy Sphere, amid the sons of shame,

Proud of thy Jest, but prouder of thy Name.

Pernicious streams from healthy fountains rise,

And Wit abus'd degenerates into vice;

Timon, long practic'd in the School of art,

Has lost each finer feeling of the Heart,

Triumphs o'er shame, and with delusive whiles,

Laughs at the Idiot he himself beguiles.

So matrons, past the awe of Censure's tongue,

Deride the blushes of the fair and young.

Few with more Fire on every subject spoke,

But chief he lov'd the gay immoral joke;

The Words most sacred, stole from holy writ,

He gave a newer form, and call'd them Wit;

Could twist a Sentence into various meaning,

And save himself in dubious explaining;

Could use a manner long taught art affords,

And hint Impiety in holy words.

Vice never had a more sincere ally,

So bold no Sinner, yet no Saint so sly;

Sophist and Cynic, mystically cool,

And still a very Sceptic at the soul;

Learn'd but not wise, and without Virtue brave,

A gay, deluding, philosophic Knave.

When Bacchus' joys his airy fancy fire,

They stir a new, but still a false desire;

The place of malice ridicule then holds,

And woe to teachers, ministers and scolds;

And, to the comfort of each untaught Fool,

Horace in English vindicates the Bowl.

"The man" (says Timon) "who is drunk is blest[4],

No fears [disturb], no cares destroy his rest;

In thoughtless joy he reels away his life,

Nor dreads that worst of ills, a noisy wife.

Of late I sat within the jangling bar,

And heard my Rib's hoarse thunder from afar;

Careless I spoke, and, when she found me drunk,

She breath'd one Curse, and then away she slunk,

Oh! place me, Jove, where none but women come,

And thunders worse than thine afflict the room;

Where one eternal Nothing flutters round,

And senseless [titt'rings] sense of mirth confound;

Or lead me bound to Garret, babel-high,

Where frantic Poet rolls his crazy eye;

Tiring the Ear, with oft-repeated chimes,

And smiling at the never ending rhymes;

E'en here or there, I'll be as blest as Jove,

Give me tobacco, and the wine I love."

Applause from Hands the dying accents break

Of stagg'ring sots, who vainly try to speak;

From Milo, him who hangs upon each word,

And in loud praises splits the tortur'd board,

Collects each sentence, ere it's better known,

And makes the mutilated joke his own,

At weekly club to flourish, where he rules

The glorious president of grosser fools.

But cease, my Muse; of those or these enough,

The fools who listen, and the knaves who Scoff;

The jest profane, that mocks th' offended God,

Defies his power, and [sets] at nought his rod.

The empty Laugh, discretion's vainest foe,

From fool to fool re-echo'd to and fro;

The sly Indecency, that slowly springs

From barren wit, and halts on trembling wings:

Enough of these, and all the charms of Wine;

Be sober joys and social evenings mine,

Where peace and Reason unsoil'd mirth improve,

The powers of friendship and the joys of love;

Where thought meets thought ere Words its form array,

And all is sacred, elegant, and gay;

Such pleasure leaves no Sorrow on the mind,

Too great to [pall], to sicken too [refin'd],

Too soft for Noise, and too sublime for art,

The social solace of the feeling Heart,

For sloth too rapid, and for wit too high,

'Tis Virtue's Pleasure, and can never die.

Now soar, my Muse! and leave the meaner crew[5],

To aim at bliss, and vainly bliss pursue;

Let us (since Man no privilege can claim,

Than a contended, half superior name)

Expatiate o'er the raptures of the Fair,

Vot'ries to stolen joys, but yet sincere;

In secret Haunts, where never day-light gleams

By bottles, tempting with forbidden streams,

Together let us search; above, below,

Try what the Closets, what the Cellars show;

The latent vault with piercing view explore

Of her who hides the all reviving store.

Eye Beauty's walks, when round the welkin rolls,

And catch the stumbling Charmer as she falls;

Laugh where we must, but pity where we can,

And vindicate the sweet soft souls to Man.

Pardon, ye Fair, the Poet and his Muse,

And what ye can't approve, at least excuse;

Far be from him the iron lash of Wit,

The jokes of Humour, and the sneers that hit;

He speaks of Freedom, and he speaks to you,

His Verse is simple, but his Subject new;

And novelty, ye Fair, beyond a doubt,

Is philosophic truth, the World throughout.

Hard is the lot of Woman, so have sung

The pensive old, and the presuming young;

Born without privilege, in bondage bred,

Slave from the Cradle to the marriage Bed;

Slave from the hour hymeneal to the grave,

In age, in youth, in infancy a Slave.

Happy the Bard, who, bold in pride of song

Shall free the chain, by Custom bound so long,

And show the Fair, to mean tradition prone,

Though Virtue may have sex, yet Vice has none.

If Man is licenc'd to confuse his mind,

Say, why should female Frailty be confin'd?

}

Is't right that she who dearly bought the fruit,

}

Of all our wayward appetites the root,

}

Who first made Man a fool and then a brute;

Who fair in spells of tender kind can slay,

Like Israel's Judge, her thousands in a day;

Nay farther, has a far superior Pow'r,

And almost thousands in a day can cure;

She, the bright cause of fury in Man's breast;

And brighter cause who bids that fury rest;

Who raises peace or war at her command,

And bids a sword destroy a tipsy Land;

Say, is it right that she who kills and saves,

Makes wise Men mad, and takes the veil from Knaves,

Should want the pow'r, the magic, which alone,

Can Conquests boast more fatal than her own?

For Man alone did earth produce her fruit,

The sole, as well as the superior, brute;

Does he alone the glorious licence claim,

To put the human off, and loose his Name?

Woman in Knowledge was the earlier curst,

And tasted of forbidden Fruit the first;

Prior to Man, the law she disobey'd,

And shall she want the Freedom she convey'd?

By her first Theft each fiery ill we feel,

And yet compel the gen'rous Fair to steal;

First made by her for soaring actions fit,

Woman! the spring of super-human wit,

Shall we from her each dear bought bliss withhold,

As Spaniards use the Indians for their Gold?

Ungrateful Man! in pride so high to aim,

As to be sole inheritor of shame!

And you, ye Fair! why slumber on disdain,

Forbear to vindicate, yet can't refrain?

Why should Papilla seek the vaulted hoard,

And but in secret ape her honest Lord?

Why should'st thou, Celia, to thy stores repair,

And sip the generous Spirit in such fear?

Reform the Error, and revoke your plan,

And as ye dare to imitate, be——Man.

First know yourselves, and frame your passions all[6],

In proper order, how to rise and fall;

Woman's a Being, dubiously great,

Never contented with a passive state;

With too much Knowledge to give Man the sway,

With too much Pride his humours to obey,

She hangs in doubt, [too] humble or [too] brave;

In doubt to be a Mistress or a Slave;

In doubt herself or Husband to controul;

Born to be made a tyrant or a fool;

In one extreme, her Power is always such

Either to show too little, or too much;

Bred up in Passions, by their sway abus'd,

The weaker for the stronger still refus'd;

Created oft' to rise, and oft' to fall,

Changing in all things, yet alike in all;

Soft Judge of right or wrong, or blest or curst,

The happiest, saddest, holiest, or the worst.

And why? because your failings ye suppress,

And what ye dare to act, dare not confess.

Would you, ye Fair, as Man your vices boast,

And she be most admir'd, who sins the most;

Would ye in open revel gaily spring,

And o'er the wanton Banquet vaunting sing;

The doubtful Precedence we then should own,

And you be first in [Error's] mazes known.

But why to Vices of the boist'rous kind

Tye the soft Soul, and urge the gentle Mind?

Forbid it, Nature! to the Fair I speak,

By her made strong, by Custom rendered weak;

Whose passions, trembling for unbounded sway,

Will thank the Bard, who points the nearest way;

All Vice through Folly's regions first should pass,

And Folly holds her sceptre o'er the glass.

Drink then, ye Fair! and nature's laws fulfill;

Be ev'ry thing at once, and all ye will;

Put off the mask that hides the Sex's claim

And makes Distinction but an empty name.

Go, wond'rous Creature! where the potion glides[7]

From Bowls unmeasured in illumin'd tides;

Instruct each other, in your due degrees;

Correct old Rules, and be e'en what you please;

Go, drink! for who shall jointed power contest?

Drink to the passable, the good, the best.

And, quitting Custom and her idle plan,

Call drowning reason imitating Man;

Like lovers' brains in giddy circles run,

And, all exhausting, imitate the Sun;

Go, and be Man in noise and glorious strife,

Then drop into his Arms and be a——Wife.

Ye Gods! what scenes upon my Fancy press,

The Consequence of unconfin'd excess;

When Vice in common has one general name,

And male and female Errors be the same;

For, as the strength of Spirit none contest,

That daring Ill shall introduce the rest;

Then, what a field of glory will arise,

What dazzling scenes, ye Fair, before your eyes:

As female duels, Jockies——what besides?

Gamblers in petticoats, and booted brides;

The tender Billet to the gentle swain,

That boldly dares avouch the am'rous pain;

Soft Beaux intreated, gentle Coxcombs prest,

And Fops asham'd half blush to be addrest.

Thus to sweet Strephon will his Chloris say,

One cup of Nectar having pav'd the way;

"Oh! why so dead to my emploring eyes,

Deaf to my prayer, and speechless to my sighs?

Sure never Nymph of old, my darling Boy,

When Men intreated, and when we were coy,

Was prest so warmly by a bleeding swain,

Or shot from killing eyes such cold disdain."

And thus will run wild Flavia's Billetdoux,

The writing bold, and e'en the spelling true:

"No more, my Belmour, shun these longing arms,

Thou quintessence of all thy Sex's charms;

At ten—behind the elm, where echoes sigh,

Shall, taught [by] me, teach thee my swain to die;

The conscious Moon shall fill her lucid horn,

And join thy Blush to mock the crimson morn;

The limpid Stream shall softly move along,

And hear its own sweet warble from thy tongue;

There come, dear boy, or vainly flow the streams,

There come, or vainly sheds the moon her beams;

Vainly on her my Moments I shall waste,

She who like thee is cold, and who like thee is chaste."

But then what tender Stripling shall escape?

What blushing Boy avoid a Lady-Rape?

Where shall each lisping creature hide his head,

To amazonian desires betray'd?

Where from the wily Heroine remove,

Clad in the fortitude of Wine and Love?

Oh! hapless Lad, what refuge canst thou find

Too soft, too mild, too tender to be kind?

Yet this is no objection understood,

"For partial Evil's universal Good."

Nor think of Nature's state I make a jest[8]:

The state of Nature is a state undrest;

The love of Pleasure at our birth began,

Pleasure the aim of all things, and of Man.

Law then was not, the swelling flame to kill,

Man walk'd with beast, and—so he always will;

And Woman too, the same their board and bed,

And would be now, but Folks are better bred;

In some convenient grot, or tufted wood,

All human beings Nature's circuit trod;

The shrine was her's, with no gay vesture laid;

Unbrib'd, unmarried stood the willing maid;

Her attribute was universal Love,

And man's prerogative to range and rove.

But how unlike the Pairs of times to come,

Wedded, yet separate, abroad at home,

Who foes to Nature, and to evil prone,

Despising all, but hating most their own.

A wayward craving this Neglect succeeds,

As every Monster monst'rous children breeds;

Strange motly passions from this vice began,

And Man unnatural turn'd to worship Man.

For this the Muse now calls the Fair to rise,

To shew our failings, and to make us wise;

Be now to Bacchus, now to Venus prone,

And share each folly Man has thought his own;

Shame him from Vice, by shewing him your shame,

And part with yours, to reinstate his Fame;

Be generously vile, and this your view:

That Man may hate his errors seen in you.

Say, when the Coxcomb flatters and adores,

When (taking snuff) your pity he implores;

With many a gentle Dem'me swears to die,

And humbly begs Destruction from your eye;

When your own arts he takes, and speaks in smiles,

With Softness woos, and with a Voice beguiles;

Does it not move your pity and disdain,

Such flow'ry passion, and such mincing pain;

Your various Follies you with anger scan,

So shewn by one whom Nature meant for Man.

E'en so do we our faults in you despise,

And Vice has double malice in those Eyes.

When Chloe toasts her Beau, or raves too loud;

When Flavia leaves her home, and joins a croud;

When Silvia fearless rolls the roguish eye,

And Damon's want of confidence supply;

When betts, and duns, and every rougher name,

Sound in the ear of either Sex the same;

How should we tell, when thus you love and hate,

Who acts the Man, and who's effeminate?

Drink, then! disclaim your Sex, be Man in all,

Shew us at once, distinction ought to fall;

And from the humble things ye were of old,

Be reeling Cæsars in a cyprian mould.

Better for us, 'tis granted, it might be[9],

Were you all Softness, and all Honour we;

That never rougher Passion mov'd your mind;

That we were all or excellent or blind;

But, as we now subsist by passions strife,

Which are (Pope writes) the elements of life,

The general order, since the whole began,

Should be dissolv'd, and Manners make the Man.

Nor fear, if once ye break through general Laws,

To draw in thousands, and gain our applause;

Nor fear but Fame your merits shall make known,

And female Bravos trample Hectors down;

From Man himself you'll learn the art he boasts,

Rule in his room, and govern in his posts.

Thus does the Muse in vein didactic speak——[10]

"Go, from proud Man thy full instructions take;

Learn from the Law, what gain its mazes yield;

Learn of the Brave the police of the field;

Thy arts of shuffling from the Courtier get;

Learn of his Grace to stare away a debt;

Learn from the Sot his poison to caress,

Shake the mad room, and revel in excess;

From Man all forms of grand deception find,

And so be tempted to delude Mankind.

Here frantic schemes of wild Ambition see;

There all the plots, my Fair! he lays for thee.

Learn each small People's genius, humours, aims,

The Jocky's dealing, and Newmarket games;

How there in common wealth in currents go,

And poverty and riches ebb and flow;

And these for ever, though a Saint deny'd,

To splendour or contempt their Masters guide;

Mark the nice rules of modern honour well,

Rules which the laws of Nature far excel.

In vain thy fancy finer whims shall draw;

Good-breeding is as difficult as Law,

And, form'd so complex, makes itself a science,

To bid the Scholar and the Clown defiance.

Go then, and thus thy present Lords survey,

And let the Creatures feel they must obey;

Learn all their Arts, be these thy choicest hoard,

Be fear'd for these, and be for these ador'd."

And where are these? within the Bowl they lie;

Thence spring ambitious thoughts, there doubtings die;

From thence we trace the horrors of a War,

Chaotic counsel, ministerial jar;

This makes a gambling Lord, a Patriot vain,

The Soldier's fury, and the Lover's pain;

Fills Bedlam's wards with souls of ærial mould;

This makes the Madman, this supplies the Scold;

Here rules the one grand Passion in extreme,

A love of lucre, or a love of fame;

The Scholar's boast, the Politician's plan;

Here shines the Bubble, and here falls the Man.

Oh! happy fall of insolence and pride,

Which makes the humblest with the great allied;

Which levels like the Grave all earthly things,

For drunken Coblers are as proud as Kings;

Which plucks the sons of grandeur from their sphere,

For who is lower than a stagg'ring Peer?

Yet here, ye Fair, tho' ev'ry Soul's the same,

And Prince and Pedlar differ but in name,

Folly with Fashion is discreetly grac'd,

And, if all sin, not all can sin in taste;

For who, ye Gods! would ever go astray,

If 'twas not something in a modish way?

Oh! Fashion, caprice, pride—whate'er we call—

Thou something, nothing, dear attractive all;

Thou serious trifle of the gentle Soul,

Worship'd, yet changing, varying to controul;

Sweet Child of wanton fancy, artful whim,

Bred in an instant, born in an Extreme;

Folly's best friend, and luxury's ally,

Who, dying always, prov'st thou canst not die;

Attend us here; let us grow mad in Form,

Rage with an Air, and elegantly storm;

Invoke destruction with a Grace divine,

And call for Satan as a child of thine;

Genteely stagger from the common road;

And ape the brute, but ape him in the mode;

With a Court-grace make every action known,

For who'd be d——n'd for sins they blush to own?

Far as the power of human vice extends[11],

Her scale of sensual vanity ascends;

Mark how it rises to the gilded Throne,

From the poor wretch who dully topes alone.

What modes of folly, each in one extreme,

The sots dim sense, th' Epicurean's dream;

Of scent, what difference 'twixt the pungent rum

And noxious vapours of fermenting stum;

Of hearing, to Champain's decanted swell

From the dull gurgle of expiring ale?

The touch, how distant in the mean and great,

Who feel all roughness, or who feed from plate;

In the nice Lord, behold what arts produce;

From vases carv'd is quaff'd the balmy juice;

How palates vary in the poor Divine,

Compar'd, half-reasoning Nobleman! with thine.

Thus every sense is fill'd in due degree,

And proper barriers bound his Grace and me;

Here every Passion is at length display'd,

Nations are ruin'd, Ministers betray'd;

And what, ye Fair, concerns your pleasures most,

Intrigues are plan'd, and Reputations lost:

By you persuaded, Man was overcome,

And conquer'd once, received a general doom;

Requite the deed, partake a general Curse;

We fell with you, and you should fall with us.

Ye gentle Gales, that softly move,

Go whisper to the Fair I love;

Tell her I languish and adore,

And pity in return implore.

But if she's cold to my request,

Ye louder Winds, proclaim the rest—

My sighs, my tears, my griefs proclaim,

And speak in strongest notes my flame.

Still, if she rests in mute disdain,

And thinks I feel a common pain—

Wing'd with my woes, ye Tempests, fly,

And tell the haughty Fair I die.

Oh, Thou! who taught my infant eye

To pierce the air, and view the sky,

To see my God in earth and seas,

To hear him in the vernal breeze,

To know him midnight thoughts among,

O guide my soul, and aid my song!

Spirit of Light! do thou impart

Majestic truths, and teach my heart;

Teach me to know how weak I am,

How vain my powers, how poor my frame;

Teach me celestial paths untrod—

The ways of glory and of God.

No more let me, in vain surprise,

To heathen art give up my eyes—

To piles laborious science rear'd

For heroes brave, or tyrants fear'd;

But quit Philosophy, and see

The Fountain of her works in Thee.

Fond man! yon glassy mirror eye—

Go, pierce the flood, and there descry

The miracles that float between

The rainy leaves of wat'ry green;

Old Ocean's hoary treasures scan;

See nations swimming round a span.

Then wilt thou say—and rear no more

Thy monuments in mystic lore—

My God! I quit my vain design,

And drop my work to gaze on Thine:

Henceforth I'll frame myself to be,

Oh, Lord! a monument of Thee.