all his toils and labours, his weary days and fleepless nights, and all his various vexations, we should be fully convinced of the truth of this, that he who increafeth riches, increaseth forrow.

I MAY appeal to every man's heart who has fought happiness from this quarter, if this has not been his constant experience. You promifed your-, self that you should be perfectly happy. when the other thousand was added to your stock, or the next purchase enlarged you eftate: You had your wish, and yet you ftill wanted: Something was lacking. You propofed new additions, and waited for your happiness again; but a new thirst urged you again to new cares and to new toils. And if the time fhould ever come, that you fhall think that you have enough, and like the rich man in the gospel, "begin to pull down your barns and build greater; and to say to your foul, Soul, thou hast much goods

goods laid up for many years, take thine eafe, eat, drink, and be merry:" Then expect the final disappointment in that alarming meffage," Thou fool, this night fhail thy foul be required of thee; then whofe fhall all thofe things be which thou haft fo laboriously laid up?"-Such is the happiness of those who trust in uncertain riches.

THE ambitious feeks his happiness in the attainment of honour: And indeed to be distinguished in the world, treated with refpect, fpoken of with admiration, careffed and courted by all around us, is highly pleafing to the heart of man, and, in the eyes of many, poffeffes charms far fuperior to the vanities of pleasure, or the fordidness of gain; yet doth the defire of wordly esteem remove the foul as far from true happinefs as the former. The enjoyment arifing from the honour which cometh from man, ftand continually on a pre

carious

carious foundation; it totters before every blast of difrefpect, and every rumour of malevolence. Like grafs on the house top, it often withereth before it is plucked up; For what can stand before envy? The hopes of men, like bubbles in the air, ufually burft as they expand. The labours of ambition are difappointed, the pride of honor mortified, the idol of reputation broken to pieces, and the friendships of the world generally faithless.

ALAS! That man, born for heaven, fhould wafte his fhort day of grace in torturing himself to conform to the humours of a vain world; feeking a phantom of fame lighter than air; grafping at diftinctions vain and infignificant; ftaking his happiness on the beck or breath of worms like himfelf; and after all, too frequently obliged to take up the lamentation of the once great Cardinal Woolfey: "Had I but ferved God

as faithfully as I have ferved the world, be would not thus have forfaken me in my grey hairs."

BUT the vanity of feeking happiness from riches, honors and pleasures, is yet more convincingly felt when death comes to put a final close to this mortal fcene. Ah! my friends, this is the awful hour that strips off the tinfel coverings of folly, ftamps vanity on all beneath the fun, and fhews that

"Too low they build, who build beneath the stars."

IN that day of terror and defpair, what can a vain world offer its poor deluded followers? Will a party of pleasure suit the chamber of fiçknefs? Or the fongs of folly delight the ear that liftens with trembling to the ftriking hour? What mufic will found in concert with dying groans? Or what joy can jewels and brocades afford when the shroud is ready to fupplant them? Will the sparkling bowl revive any longer, when the par

ched

ched tongue begins to faulter? Or beauty kindle the unhallowed fire when death fits on the fixed eye balls, and spreads his chilling damps over the heart? Alas! my brother, vanity of vanities, all is va nity, is now feen in characters too legible to be overlooked. The remembrance of a life mifpent in vain or in guilty pleasures, will fill the foul with pangs of remorse, with agonies of horror, of which none but the wretched fufferers

can form any idea, "Ab pleasure, pleafure, Thou vile forcerefs! Thou curfed deStroyer of my foul! Thou once fmiledft as with the charms of innocence, now I feel thee fting as a viper. Where are thy promifes of delight? Foal that I was to believe thee! For thy fake I have enflaved my foul to the lufts of a brute, and cherished the paffions of a demon! I have neglected God, and fold my birth-right to heaven! Me, miferable! Whether am I going? My golden fands are all run out! The

fun