}
And smooth the stormy passage to the grave.
But man, who knows no good unmix'd and pure,
Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure;
For grave deceivers lodge their labours here,
And cloud the science they pretend to clear.
Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent;
Like fire and storms, they call us to repent;
370
But storms subside, and fires forget to rage,