(seq. 23)

17

'Tis gone! and all the bliss, that on it hung,

Is instant from its ravish,d owner flung ~

What then has time to chain me down so fast;

Or drown my soul in fancy,d joys repast?

E'er long an awful chnange demanding breath,

And I must cease to live and sleep in death,

Where naught avails, or any change can come,

But an unchanging state, that's never done ~

Drunkards in hell ~

The brutal joy, the festival of sence,

That sparkles in the glass, that must commence

The intoxicating scene, of grovlng taste,

That lays the Heav'n born soul a shameful waste,

And damns the man a stupid libertine,

Or veils the soul, that rambles half divine,

And binds it fast to that etrnal day

[Illegible} the fool amidst the torrid play

Of flames, that flash with unremited blaze,