Whilst man, by opening views of various wayes
Confounded, by the aid of knowledge strays.
To find impatient, yet too weak to chuse
Fond to discover what he should refuse,
Pleas'd with his vain amusements on the Road
Yet like yow thoughtless of his Last abode.
Whether next sun, his Being shall restrain
To endless nothing, Happiness, or pain?

Arround me I behold the thinking crew,
Bewilder'd each their different paths pursue.
Of them I ask the way; the First replys,
Thow art a god, & sends me to the skys.
Down on this Turf (the next) thow two-legd Beast,
Here fix thy Lott, thy Bliss, & endless rest.
Between those wide extremes my doubts are such,
I find I know too litle or too much.

Allmighty Power, by whose most dread command, Helpless, Forlorn, uncertain here I stand, Take this faint glimmering of thy self away, Or Break into my Soul with perfect day.

This said; expanded lay the sacred text,

The light the Balm the Guide of Souls perplexd:
Stupendous is thy power; O light divine
The sons of darkness tremble at each Line.
Black doubt, & Hell-Born error shun thy Ray
As tardy sprights are startled at the day.
Thow cleard the secret of my high descent,
Thow told me what those Motly tokens meant,
Marks of my Birth, which I had worn in vain,
Too hard for worldly sages to explain.
Zenos were false, vain Epicurus s[c]hemes,
Their systems false; delusive were their dreams.
Unskilld my two fold nature to divide;
One nursd by pleasure, & one nursd my pride.
Those jarring truths which human art beguild
Thus in thy page I read; & reconcild.

I am thy god; thow canst alone from me
Learn what thow wert, thow art, & still may Be.
Faultless thou dropt from my unerring Skill,
With the Bare power to sin, since Free of will,
Nor for this freedome, could thow blame my love.
For he may wander, who has power to move.
Born on thy new urgd wings, thow took thy Flight,
Left thy Creator, & the Realms of light;
Under thy Feet, my dread commandments trode,
And thought by doing ill, to grow a god.

Thy heavnly Beauty thus by sin defacd,

In nature changd, from happy Mansions chasd,
Thow still conceals't some sparks of heavnly Fire,
Too faint to mount, yet restless to aspire.
Angel enough to seek thy Bliss again,

And Brute enough, to make this search in vain.

From hence it is that warring tempests Roll
Within thy Breast, & Rend thy torturd soul.
Thy lust, thy curiosity, thy Pride,

Curbd, or deferrd, or Baulkd, or Gratifyd
Rage on, & make the[e] equally unblessd
In what thow wants or what thou hast possesst;
Repast ill swited, to such differing guests
For what thy sense desires thy soul distasts.
In vain thow seeks thy Bliss, on this poor clod,
Return to me, thy Father, & thy god.
But think not to regain thy native Skye
By towring thoughts of vain philosophy;
Strange is the way that Leads to paradise
Thow must by creeping mount & sinking Rise.
Lett Lowly thoughts thy wary Footsteps guide,
Regain thus humbly, what thow lost by pride.

DOUBTFUL WORKS.

NOTES AND MEMORANDUMS

OF THE

SIX DAYS PRECEDING THE DEATH OF A LATE

RIGHT REVEREND

CONTAINING

Many remarkable passages, with an Inscription designed

FOR HIS MONUMENT1.

Non moreris G- te voles, sed vivus ad Astra,
Aetheriis vectus qualis Enochus equis.-Dr. Bentley.

THURSDAY, MARCH 10, 1714(-5).

Quicquid erit vitae, scribam, color.-Hor.

ROSE at five: slipped on my morning-gown: purified my outside. Meditated on the vanity of washings, and the superfluity of habits. Walked about my room half an hour precisely. Exercise useful; throws off corrupt humours; much need of it. Look out the window; hemmed three times; much easier than before. Three ejaculations for that. Cast my eyes about. I am positive I see a Romish priest: omen of an evil import. O! the depths of Satan! few know them; I do. Look into the glass choler begins to rise; face reddens, eyes sparkle, hands shake, body trembles. Sad meditation! whence could that fellow come? O Rome, Rome! debaucher of morals, seducer of souls, painted whore, filthy abomination! Great perturbation of mind sigh for ease in the spirit. Servant enters: inquire

:

'As regards this attack on Gilbert Burnet, Bishop of Salisbury, see page 85. Burnet was a politician and broad churchman, whose chief weakness was vanity. He always said what he thought, though it

might sometimes have been more discreet to keep silent. Swift attacked him in A Preface to the Bishop of Sarum's Introduction to the third volume of the History of the Reformation,' and elsewhere.