e viol, and the dance,
Loud mirth, mad laughter? Wretched comforters!
Physicians! more than half of thy disease.
Laughter, though never censured yet as sin
(Pardon a thought that only seems severe),
Is half immoral: Is it much indulged? 750
By venting spleen, or dissipating thought,
It shows a scorner, or it makes a fool;
And sins, as hurting others, or ourselves.
'Tis pride, or emptiness, applies the straw,
That tickles little minds to mirth effuse;
Of grief approaching, the portentous sign!
The house of laughter makes a house of woe.
A man triumphant is a monstrous sight;
A man dejected is a sight as mean.
What cause for triumph, where such ills abound? 760
What for dejection, where presides a Power,
Who call'd us into being to be bless'd?
So grieve, as conscious, grief may rise to joy; 763
So joy, as conscious, joy to grief may fall.
Most true, a wise man never will be sad;
But neither will sonorous, bubbling mirth,
A shallow stream of happiness betray:
Too happy to be sportive, he's serene.
Yet would'st thou laugh (but at thy own expense),
This counsel strange should I presume to give-- 770
"Retire, and read thy Bible, to be gay."
There truths abound of sovereign aid to peace;
Ah! do not prize them less, because inspired,
As thou, and thine, are apt and proud to do.
If not inspired, that pregnant page had stood,
Time's treasure, and the wonder of the wise!
Thou think'st, perhaps, thy soul alone at stake;
Alas!--should men mistake thee for a fool;--
What man of taste for genius, wisdom, truth,
Though tender of thy fame, could interpose? 780
Believe me, sense here acts a double part,
And the true critic is a Christian too.
But these, thou think'st, are gloomy paths to joy.--
True joy in sunshine ne'er was found at first;
They, first, themselves offend, who greatly please;
And travel only gives us sound repose.
Heaven sells all pleasure; effort is the price;
The joys of conquest, are the joys of man;
And glory the victorious laurel spreads
O'er pleasure's pure, perpetual, placid stream. 790
There is a time, when toil must be preferr'd,
Or joy, by mistimed fondness, is undone.
A man of pleasure, is a man of pains.
Thou wilt not take the trouble to be blest.
False joys, indeed,