LXVI.

Sin, which at fulleft growth is childish still, Would but for pleafure's company decay;

In fens, doth to uncertainties direct

The weary progress of our useless fight;

And only makes us able to suspect.

But quickly languish being kept from play.

LXXIX.

Since only pleasure breeds fin's appetite, Which still by pleasant objects is infus'd; Since 'tis provok'd to what it doth commit, And ills provok'd may plead to be excus'd;

LXXX.

Why fhould our fins, which not a moment laft,
(For, to eternity compar'd, extent
Of life is, e'er we name it, stop'd and past)
Receive a doom of endless punishment?

LXXXI.

If fouls to hell's vaft prison never come

Committed for their crimes, but destin'd be, Like bondmen born, whose prifon is their home, And long ere they were bound could not be free;

LXXXII.

Then hard is deftiny's dark law; whofe text We are forbid to read, yet muft obey;