Oh ye whose souls relentless love has tam’d 145
To soft distress, or friends untimely slain!
Court not the luxury of tender thought:
Nor deem it impious to forget those pains
That hurt the living, nought avail the dead.
Go, soft enthusiast! quit the cypress groves, 150
Nor to the rivulet’s lonely moanings tune
Your sad complaint. Go, seek the chearful haunts
Of men, and mingle with the bustling croud;
Lay schemes for wealth, or power, or fame, the wish