For why should souls immortal, made for bliss,
E’er wish (and wish in vain!) that souls could die?
What ne’er can die, oh! grant to live; and crown 1400
The wish, and aim, and labour of the skies;
Increase, and enter on the joys of heaven:
Thus shall my title pass a sacred seal,
Receive an imprimatur from above,
While angels shout—An Infidel Reclaimed!
To close, Lorenzo! spite of all my pains,
Still seems it strange, that thou should’st live for ever?