. Immortality alone
renders our present state intelligible, 545. An objection from the
Stoics' disbelief of immortality answered, 585. Endless questions
unresolvable, but on the supposition of our immortality, 606. The
natural, most melancholy, and pathetic complaint of a worthy man, under
the persuasion of no Futurity, 653, &c. The gross absurdities and horrors
of annihilation urged home on Lorenzo, 843, &c. The soul's vast
importance, 992, &c.; from whence it arises, 1080. The Difficulty of
being an Infidel, 1133; the Infamy, 1148; the Cause, 1188; and the
Character, 1203, of an Infidel state. What true free-thinking is, 1218.
The necessary punishment of the false, 1273. Man's ruin is from himself,
1303. An Infidel accuses himself with guilt and hypocrisy, and that of
the worst sort, 1319. His obligation to Christians, 1337. What danger he
incurs by Virtue, 1345. Vice recommended to him, 1364. His high pretences
to Virtue and Benevolence exploded, 1373. The Conclusion, on the nature
of Faith, 1406; Reason, 1440; and Hope, 1445; with an apology for this
attempt, 1472.

Heaven gives the needful, but neglected, call.
What day, what hour, but knocks at human hearts,
To wake the soul to sense of future scenes? 3
Deaths stand, like Mercuries, in every way,
And kindly point us to our journey's end.
Pope, who could'st make immortals! art thou dead?
I give thee joy: nor will I take my leave;
So soon to follow. Man but dives in death;
Dives from the sun, in fairer day to rise;
The grave, his subterranean road to bliss. 10
Yes, infinite indulgence plann'd it so;
Through various parts our glorious story runs;
Time gives the preface, endless age unrolls
The volume (ne'er unroll'd!) of human fate.
This, earth and skies already[32] have proclaim'd.
The world's a prophecy of worlds to come;
And who, what God foretells (who speaks in things,
Still louder than in words) shall dare deny?
If Nature's arguments appear too weak,
Turn a new leaf, and stronger read in Man. 20
If man sleeps on, untaught by what he sees,
Can he prove infidel to what he feels?
He, whose blind thought futurity denies,
Unconscious bears, Bellerophon![33] like thee,
His own indictment; he condemns himself;
Who reads his bosom, reads immortal life;
Or, Nature, there, imposing on her sons,
Has written fables; man was made a lie