The bliss of being, or with previous pain
Deplore its period, by the spleen of fate, 710
Severely doom’d Death’s single unredeem’d?
If Nature’s revolution speaks aloud,
In her gradation, hear her louder still.
Look nature through, ’tis neat gradation all.
By what minute degrees her scale ascends!
Each middle nature join’d at each extreme,
To that above it join’d, to that beneath.
Parts, into parts reciprocally shot,