S. BERN. in Ser.

In this world is much treachery, little truth; here, all things are traps; here, every thing is beset with snares; here souls are endangered, bodies are afflicted; here, all things are vanity and vexation of spirit.

EPIG. 3.

Nay, Cupid, pitch thy trammel where thou please
Thou canst not fail to take such fish as these;
Thy thriving sport will ne'er be spent: no need
To fear, when ev'ry cork's a world, thou'lt speed.

HOSEA

Quam grave Servitium eft quod levis Efca parit.
Great myt the Slavry be, where to your fhare,
Such flight Refreshment falls, to ease your Care.

IV.

HOSEA xiii. 3.

They shall be as the chaff that is driven with a whirlwind out of the floor, and as the smoke out of the chimney.

F

LINT-hearted Stoics, you, whose marble eyes
Contemn a wrinkle, and whose souls despise
To follow nature's too affected fashion,

Or travel in the regent walk of passion;
Whose rigid hearts disdain to shrink at fears,
Or play at fast and loose, with smiles and tears;
Come, burst your spleens with laughter to behold
A new-found vanity, which days of old
Ne'er knew a vanity, that has beset

The world, and made more slaves than Mahomet :
That has condemn'd us to the servile yoke
Of slavery, and made us slaves to smoke.
But stay, why tax I thus our modern times,
For new-born follies, and for new-born crimes ?
Are we sole guilty, and the first age free?

No, they were smok'd and slav'd as well as we : [sure
What's sweet-lipt honour's blast but smoke? What's trea-
But very smoke? And what more smoke than pleasure?
Alas! they're all but shadows, fumes, and blasts;
That vanishes, this fades, the other wastes.
The restless merchant, he that loves to steep
His brains in wealth, and lays his soul to sleep
In bags of bullion, sees th' immortal crown,
And fain would mount, but ingots keep him down :
He brags to-day, perchance, and begs to-morrow :
He lent but now, wants credit now to borrow;

Blow, winds, the treasure's gone, the merchant's broke ;
A slave to silver's but a slave to smoke.

Behold the glory- vying child of fame,

That from deep wounds sucks such an honour'd name;

That

That thinks no purchase worth the style of good,
But what is sold for sweat, and seal'd with blood;
That for a point, a blast of empty breath,
Undaunted gazes in the face of death;

Whose dear-bought bubble, fill'd with vain renown,
Breaks with a filip, or a gen'ral's frown:
His stroke got honour staggers with a stroke;
A slave to honour is a slave to smoke.
And that fond fool, who wastes his idle days
In loose delights and sports about the blaze
Of Cupid's candle; he that daily spies
Twin babies in his mistress' Gemini's,
Whereto his sad devotion does impart
The sweet burnt off'ring of a bleeding heart.
See, how his wings are sing'd in Cyprian fire.
Whose flames consume with youth, with age expire:
The world's a bubble; all the pleasures in it,
Like morning vapours, vanish in a minute:
The vapours vanish, and the bubble's broke;
A slave to pleasure, is a slave to smoke.
Now, Stoic, cease thy laughter, and repast
Thy pickled cheeks with tears, and weep as fast.

S. HIERON.