BAXTER,~ POEMS·. 'l'hy soul now in a, filthy channel lies, While fancy seems to soar above the skies. Beauty will soon be stinking, loathsome earth : Sickness and death mar all the wanton's mirth! It is not all the pleasure thou canst find Will countervail the sting that •s left behind. Blind, brutish souls ! that cannot .love their God ! An"d yet can dote on a defiled clod ! [morrow? Flesh. Why should I think of what will be toAn ounce of mirth is worth a pound of sorrow. Spirit. :aut where's that mirth when sorrows overtake thee ? Will it then hold when life and God forsake thee? Forgetting death or Hell will not prevent it. Now lose thy day, thou' it then too late repent it. Flesh. Must I be pain'd andwronged, and not feel? As if my heart were made of flint or steel? [smart? Spirit. Dost thou delight to feel thy hurt and Would not an a~1tidote preserve thy heart? Impatience is but self-tormenting folly: Patience is cordial, easy, sweet, and holy. Is not that better which turns grief to peace, Than that which doth thy misery increase? [vite, Flesh. When sport, and wine, and beauty do in- 'Vho is it whom such baits will not incite ? Spirit. He that perceives the hook and sees the end, Whither it is that fleshly pleasures tend. He that by faith bath seen both Heav'n and Hell, And what sin costeth at the last can tell: He that hath tried and tasted better things, And felt that love from which all pleasure springs,
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