And what a poor figure would Mr Bayes have made, without his _Egad,
and all that_?" But, by means of this easy flow of versification in
which the rhime is sometimes almost lost by the pause being
transferred to the middle of the line, Dryden, in some measure
indemnified himself for his confinement, and, at least, muffled the
clank of his fetters. Still, however, neither the kind of verse, nor
perhaps the poet, himself, were formed for expressing rapid and ardent
dialogue; and the beauties of "Aureng-Zebe" will be found chiefly to
consist in strains of didactic morality, or solemn meditation. The
passage, descriptive of life, has been distinguished by all the
critics, down to Dr Johnson:

_Aur._ When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat;
Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit;
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay:
To-morrow's falser than the former day;
Lies worse; and, while it says, We shall be blest
With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.
Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
I'm tired with waiting for this chemic gold,
Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.

Nor is the answer of Nourmahal inferior in beauty:

_Nour._ 'Tis not for nothing that we life pursue;
It pays our hopes with something still that's new;
Each day's a mistress, unenjoyed before;
Like travellers, we're pleased with seeing more.
Did you but know what joys your way attend,
You would not hurry to your journey's end.

It might be difficult to point out a passage in English poetry, in
which so common and melancholy a truth is expressed in such beautiful
verse, varied with such just illustration. The declamation on virtue,
also, has great merit, though, perhaps, not equal to that on the
vanity of life:

_Aur._ How vain is virtue, which directs our ways
Through certain danger to uncertain praise!
Barren, and airy name! thee fortune flies,
With thy lean train, the pious and the wise.
Heaven takes thee at thy word, without regard;
And let's thee poorly be thy own reward.
The world is made for the bold impious man,
Who stops at nothing, seizes all he can.
Justice to merit does weak aid afford;
She trusts her balance, and neglects her sword.
Virtue is nice to take what's not her own;
And, while she long consults, the