Gold pleasure buys;
But pleasure dies,
Too soon the gross fruition cloys;
Tho' raptures court,
The sense is short;
But virtue kindles living joys;
Joys felt alone!
Joys ask'd of none!
Which time's and fortune's arrows miss:
Joys that subsist,
Tho' fates resist,
An unprecarious, endless bliss!
The soul refin'd
Is most inclin'd
To every moral excellence;
All vice is dull,
A knave's a fool;
And virtue is the child of sense.
The virtuous mind,
Nor wave, nor wind,
Nor civil rage, nor tyrant's frown,
The shaken ball,
Nor planet's fall,
From its firm basis can dethrone.
This Britain knows,
And therefore glows
With gen'rous passions, and expends
Her wealth and zeal
On public weal,
And brightens both by god-like ends.
What end so great
As that which late
Awoke the genius of the main;
Which tow'ring rose
With George to close,
And rival great Eliza's reign?
A voice has flown
From Britain's throne
To re-inflame a grand design;
That voice shall rear
Yon (23)fabric fair,
As nature's rose at the divine.
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