An E PIG RÅ M.

more, O Rome, thy wrong Belief defend, No more for feven Sacraments contend:

Each wedded Wretch can readily confute
Thy boafted Arguments in this Dispute :
For all, by fad Experience taught, proclaim
Penance and Matrimony are the fame.

ANOTHER.

OT all the Shifts that crafty Rome invents,

NOT

Can e'er compleat her Tale of Sacraments: For while the wedded Laymen, to their Coft, Find Matrimony all in Penance loft,

The Clergy own, debarr'd the Nuptial Flame,
Penance and Orders are to them the fame.

On HUMAN LIFE.

1.

Ince all Mankind to Happiness

Since

Lay fome fantastic Claim ;

"Tis strange, among fo great a Crowd,

That all should mifs their Aim.

II.

How were I bleft, the Peasant cries,
Had Empire been my Share!

Curst be this Grandeur, fays the Prince,

The Source of all my Care.

III.

As when some craggy Cliff from far
With Pleasure we furvey;

And, with the distant Prospect fir'd,

Streight thither make our Way:

IV. But

IV.

But find at length, with Pains arriv'd,

Its tempting Glory ceas'd; By defart Barrenness convinc'd The Distance only pleas'd.

V.

Thus our o'er-heated Fancies rove

In all Affairs of Life;

Her, whom a Mistress we adore,

We nauseate when a Wife.

VI.

I'll, to be happy, be content,
Nor break with Care my Sleeps;
Blifs, like a Shadow, run or stand,
The felf-fame Distance keeps.

S

The PENITEN T.

I.

Ilent and lonesome while I lie,

To my fick Bed confin'd;

My Follies past, my num'rous Sins

Rife dreadful in my Mind.

II.

In vain I turn from Side to Side,

To gain my Body Eafe;

In vain folicit every Thought,

To calm my Soul to Peace.

III.

No Peace the Wicked fhall enjoy ;

(So God's fix'd Will ordains)

But He who tastes the Sweets of Sin,

Shall groan beneath its Pains.

IV. Earn

IV.

Earneft for Pity now I cry,

Awaken'd by my Smart:

Reproachful Shame confounds my Soul,
And Anguish rends my Heart.

V.

But oh! will God regard my Tears,
The Fruit of Guilt and Fear?

Me, who his Justice have provok'd,
Oh! will his Mercy spare?

VI.

Yes; for the broken contrite Heart

My Saviour's Suff'rings plead:

He will not quench the fmoaking Flax,
Nor break the bruifed Reed.

VII.

Ev'n here I feel his gracious Hand;

Tis He, feverely kind,