For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam;
No thought of peace or happiness at home.
But wisdom's triumph is well-tim'd retreat,

As hard a science to the fair as great!
Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless grown,

Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone,
Worn out in public, weary every eye,

Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die.
Pleasures the sex, as children birds, pursue,

Still out of reach, yet never out of view;
Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most, That it is known to few, most falling into one of
To covet flying, and regret when lost :

the extremes, avarice or profusion. The point At last, to follies youth could scarce defend,

discussed, whether the invention of money has It grows their age's prudence to pretend ;

been more commodious or pernicious to mankind. Asham'd to own they gave delight before,

That riches, either to the avaricious or the prodi. Reduc'd to feign it, when they give no more.

gal, cannot afford happiness, scarcely necessaries. As hags hold sabbaths, less for joy than spite,

That avarice is an absolute frenzy, without an So these their merry, miserable night;

end or purpose. Conjectures about the motives Still round and round the ghosts of beauty glide, of avaricious men. That the conduct of men, And haunt the places where their honor died. with respect to riches, can only be accounted See how the world its veterans rewards!

for by the order of Providence, which works the A youth of frolics, an old-age of cards :

general good out of extremes, and brings all to Fair to no purpose, artful to no end;

its great end by perpetual revolutions. How a Young without lovers, old without a friend ;

miser acts upon principles which appear to him A fop their passion, but their prize a sot ;

reasonable. How a prodigal does the same. The Alive, ridiculous; and dead, forgot!

due medium, and true use of riches. The Man Ah! friend! to dazzle let ihe vain design ;

of Ross. The fate of the profuse and the cov. To raise the thought, and touch the heart, be thine! etous, in two examples; both miserable in life That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the ring, and in death. The story of Sir Balaam. Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing: So when the Sun's broad beam has tir'd the sight, P. Who shall decide when doctors disagree, All mild ascends the Moon's more sober light, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me? Serene in virgin modesty she shines,

You hold the word, from Jove to Momus given, And unobserv'd the glaring orb declines.

'That man was made the standing jest of Heaven; Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray And gold but sent to keep the fools in play, Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day :

For some to heap, and some to throw away. She, who can love a sister's charms, or hear

But I, who think more highly of our kind, Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear; (And, surely, Heaven and I are of a mind) She who ne'er answers till a husband cools, Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound, Or, if she rules him, never shows she roles ; Deep hid the shining mischief under ground: Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, But when, by man's audacious labor won, Yet has her humor most, when she obeys;

Flam'd forth this rival too, its sire, the Sun, Let fops or Fortune fly which way they will, Then careful Heaven supplied two sorts of men, Disdains all loss of tickets, or codille ;

To squander these, and those to hide again. Spleen, vapors, or small-pox, above them all,

Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past And mistress of herself, though china fall. We find our tenets just the same at last.

And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, Both fairly owning, riches, in effect, Woman's at best a contradiction still.

No grace of Heaven, or token of th' elect; Heaven when it strives to polish all it can

Given to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil, Its last best work, but forms a softer man;

To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the Devil. Picks from each sex, to make the favorite blest, B. What nature wants, commodious gold bestows Your love of pleasure, our desire of rest :

'Tis thus we eat the bread another sows. Blends, in exception to all general rules,

P. But how unequal it bestows, observe; Your taste of follies, with our scorn of fools: 'Tis thus we riot, while, who sow it, starve: Reserve with frankness, art with truth allied, What nature wants (a phrase I must distrust) Courage with softness, modesty with pride; Extends to luxury, extends to lust: Fix'd principles, with fancy ever new;

Useful, I grant, it serves what life requires, Shakes all together, and produces--you.

But dreadful too, the dark assassin hires. Be this a woman's fame! with this unblest,

B. Trade it may help, society extend : Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest. P. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend. This Phæbus promis'd (I forget the year)

B. It raises armies in a nation's aid : When those blue eyes first open'd on the sphere; P. But bribes a senate, and the land's betray'd. Ascendant Phæbus watch'd that hour with care, In vain may heroes fight, and patriots rave, Averted half your parents' simple prayer; If secret gold sap on from knave to knave. And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf

Once we confess, beneath the patriot's cloak, That buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself.

From the crack'd bag the dropping Guinea spoke, The generous god, who wit and gold refines, And jingling down the back-stairs, told the crew, And ripens spirits as he ripens mines,

“Old Cato is as great a rogue as you." Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it, Blest Paper-credit! last and best supply! To you gave sense, good-humor, and a poet. That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly!

Gold, imp'd by thee, can compass hardest things. But the good bishop, with a meeker air,
Can pocket states, can fetch or carry kings; Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care.
A single leaf shall waft an army o'er,

| Yet to be just to these poor men of pelf, Or ship off senates to some distant shore;

Each does but hate his neighbor as himself: A leaf, like Sibyl's, scatter to and fro,

Damn'd to the mines, an equal fate betides Our fates and fortunes, as the wind shall blow: The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides. Pregnant with thousands flits the scrap unseen, 1 B. Who suffer thus, mere charity should own. And silent sells a king, or buys a queen.

Must act on motives powerful, though unknown Oh! that such bulky bribes as all might see, 1 P. Some war, some plague, or famine, they foresee. Still, as of old, encumber'd villany!

Some revelation hid from you and me. Could France or Rome divert our brave designs, Why Shylock wants a meal, the cause is found; With all their brandies, or with all their wines ? He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound. What could they more than knights and 'squires What made directors cheat in South-Sea ycar? confound,

To live on venison when it sold so dear. Or water all the quorum ten miles round?

Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys? A statesman's slumbers how this speech would Phryne foresees a general excise. spoil!

Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum? “Sir, Spain has sent a thousand jars of oil; Alas! they fear a man will cost a plum. Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door; Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold, A hundred oxen at your levee roar."

And therefore hopes this nation may be sold: Poor Avarice one torment more would find; Glorious ambition! Peter, swell thy store, Nor could Profusion squander all in kind.

And be what Rome's great Didius was before. Astride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet; The crown of Poland, venal twice an age, And Worldly crying coals from street to street, To just three millions stinted modest Gage. Whom, with a wig so wild, and mien so maz'd, But nobler scenes Maria's dreams unfold, Pity mistakes for some poor tradesman craz'd. Hereditary realms, and worlds of gold. Had Colepepper's whole wealth been hops and Congenial souls! whose life one avarice joins, hogs,

And one fate buries in th' Asturian mines. Could he himself have sent it to the dogs ? | Much-injur'd Blunt! why bears he Britain's hate? His grace will game: to White's a bull be led, A wizard told him in these words our fate : With spurning heels and with a butting head. “ At length Corruption, like a general flood, To White's be carried, as to ancient games, (So long by watchful ministers withstood,) Fair coursers, vases, and alluring dames.

Shall deluge all; and Avarice, creeping on, Shall then Uxorio, if the stakes he sweep,

Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun; Bear home six whores, and make his lady weep? Siatesman and patriot ply alike the stocks, Or soft Adonis, so perfum'd and fine,

Peeress and butler share alike the box; Drive to St. James's a whole herd of swine? And judges job, and bishops bite the town, Oh filthy check on all industrious skill,

And mighty dukes pack cards for half a crown. To spoil the nation's last great trade, quadrille! See Britain sunk in Lucre's sordid charms, Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall, And France reveng'd of Anne's and Edward's What say you? B. Say? Why take it, gold and


'Twas no court-badge, great scrivener, fir'd thy brain, P. What riches give us, let us then inquire ? Nor lordly luxury, nor city gain : Meat, fire, and clothes. B. What more? P. Meat, No, 'twas thy righteous end, asham'd to see clothes, and fire.

Senates degenerate, patriots disagree,
Is this too little ? would you more than live? And nobly wishing party-rage to cease,
Alas! 'tis more than Turner finds they give. To buy both sides, and give thy country peace.
Alas! 'tis more than all his visions past)

“All this is madness,"cries a sober sage:
Unhappy Wharton, waking, found at last ! But who, my friend, has reason in his rage ?
What can they give? to dying Hopkins, heirs ; " The ruling passion, be it what it will,
To Chartres, vigor; Japhet, nose and ears? The ruling passion conquers reason still."
Can they, in gems bid pallid Hippia glow,

Less mad the wildest whimsey we can frame, In Fulvia's buckle ease the throbs below;

Than even that passion, if it has no aim; Or heal, old Narses, thy obscener ail,

For though such motives folly you may call,
With all th' embroidery plaster'd at thy tail ? The folly's greater to have none at all.
They might (were Harpax not too wise to spend) Hear then the truth : “ 'Tis Heaven each passion
Give Harpax'self the blessing of a friend ;

Or find some doctor that would save the life And different men directs to different ends.
Of wretched Shylock, spite of Shylock's wife; Extremes in Nature equal good produce,
But thousands die, without or this or that,

Extremes in man concur to general use."
Die, and endow a college, or a cat.

Ask we what makes one keep, and one bestow ? To some, indeed, Heaven grants the happier fate, That Power who bids the ocean ebb and flow, T'enrich a bastard, or a son they hate.

Bids seed-time, harvest, equal course maintain, Perhaps you think the poor might have their part; Through reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain, Bond damns the poor, and hates them from his Builds life on death, on change duration founds, heart:

And gives th' eternal wheels to know their rounds The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule

Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie, That every man in want is knave or fool: Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. “God cannot love” (says Blunt, with tearless eyes) Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store “The wretch he starves”-and piously denies: Sees but a backward steward for the poor;


I'his year, a reservoir, to keep and spare;

Whose table, Wit, or modest Merit share, The next, a fountain, spouting through his heir, Un-elbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player ? In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst, Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part, And men and dogs shall drink bim till they burst. To ease th'oppressd, and raise the sinking heart?

Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth, Where'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:

And angels guard him in the golden mean! What though (the use of barbarous spits forgot) There, English Bounty yet awhile may stand, His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot? And Honor linger ere it leaves the land. His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor'd, But all our praises why should lords engross: With soups unbought and salads bless'd his board? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross : If Cotta liv'd on pulse, it was no more

Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, Than Bramins, saints, and sages did before : And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. To cram the rich, was prodigal expense,

Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry And who would take the poor from Providence ?

brow? Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old Hall, From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Silence without, and fasts within the wall; Not to the skies in useless columns tost, No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound, Or in proud falls magnificently lost; No noontide bell invites the country round: But clear and artless pouring through the plain Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey, Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. And turn th' unwilling steeds another way : Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows! Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,

Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? Curs'd the sav'd candle, and unopening door; Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate, "The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies. Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!

Not so his son: he mark'd this oversight, | The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : And then mistook reverse of wrong for right. He feeds yon alms-house, neal, but void of state, (For what to sbun, will no great knowledge need; Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate; But what to follow, is a task indeed.)

Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest, Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,

The young who labor, and the old who rest. More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise.

Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves, What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives Fill the capacious 'squire, and deep divine! Is there a variance? enter but his door, Yet no mean motives this profusion draws,

Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more. His oxen perish in his country's cause;

Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, "Tis George and Liberty that crowns the cup, And vile attorneys, now an useless race. And zeal for that great house which eats him up. B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue The woods recede around the naked seat,

What all so wish, but want the power to do! The Sylvans groan—no matter-for the fleet: Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply? Next goes his wool-to clothe our valiant bands : What mines to swell that boundless charity ? Last, for his country's love, he sells his lands. P. or debts and taxes, wife and children clear, To town he comes, completes the nation's hope, This man possest-five hundred pounds a year. And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a pope. Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw And shall not Britain now reward his toils,

your blaze! Britain that pays her patriots with her spoils ? Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays. In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his cause, | B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone! His thankless country leaves him to her laws. | His race, his form, his name almost unknown? The sense to value riches, with the art

P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame T enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,

Will never mark the marble with his name: Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursued,

Go, search it there, where to be born and die, Not sunk by sloth, nor rais'd by servitude ; Of rich and poor makes all the history; To balance fortune by a just expense,

Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between; Join with economy, magnificence;

Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been. With splendor, charity; with plenty, health; When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend Oh teach us, Bathurst! yet unspoild by wealth! The wretch, who living sav'd a candle's end; That secret rare, between th' extremes to move Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands, Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love. Belies his features, nay extends his hands; B. To worth or want well-weigh'd, be bounty That livelong wig, which Gorgon's self might own, given,

Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone. And ease, or emulate, the care of Heaven; Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend ! (Whose measure full o'erflows on human race) And see, what comfort it affords our end, Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace. In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd; The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, As poison heals, in just proportion us'd:

On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw, In heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies,

With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw, But well dispers'd, is incense to the skies.

'The George and Garter dangling from that bed P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats? Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that Great Villiers lies-alas, how chang'd from him cheats.

That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim! Is there a lord, who knows a cheerful noon Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon?

The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and Love


Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste 1 Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls ;
His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste ? And Nero's terraces desert their walls :
Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats ;

The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,
Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats : Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake:
He buys for Topham drawings and designs; Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain
For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins ; You'll wish your bill or shelter'd seat again.
Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone, Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane. Nor in an hermitage set Dr. Clarke.
Think we all these are for himself? no more Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete;
Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.

His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet; For what has Virro painted, built, and planted ? The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, Only to show how many tastes he wanted. And strength of shade contends with strength of What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste ?

light; Some demon whispered, “ Visio! have a taste." A waving glow the bloomy beds display, Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool, Blushing in bright diversities of day, And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule. With silver-quivering rills rneanderd o'erSee! sportive Fate, to punish awkward pride, Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more ; Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide : . Tir'd of the scene parterres and fountains yield, A standing sermon, at each year's expense, He finds at last he better likes a field. That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence!

Through his young woods bow pleas'd Sabinus You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse,

stray'd, And pompous buildings once were things of use. Or sate delighted in the thickening shade, Yet shall, my lord, your just, your noble rules With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Fill half the land with imitating fools;

Or see the stretching branches long to meet! Who randorn drawings from your sheets shall His son's fine taste an opener Vista loves, take,

Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves ; And of one beauty many blunders make; One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views, Load some vain church with old theatric state, With all the mournful family of yews : Turn arts of triumph to a garden-gate;

| The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade. On some patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall; | At Timon's villa let us pass a day, Then clap four slices of pilaster on 't,

Where all cry out, “What sums are thrown away! That, lac'd with bits of rustic, makes a front. So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, Soft and agreeable come never there. Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;

Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught Conscious they act a true Palladian part,

As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. And if they starve, they starve by rules of art. To compass this, his building is a town,

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer, His pond an ocean, his parterre a down:
A certain truth, which many buy too dear: Who but must laugh, the master when he sees,
Something there is more needful than expense, A puny insect, shivering at a breeze!
And something previous ev'n to taste-'tis sense: Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, The whole a labor'd quarry above ground.
And, though no science, fairly worth the seven : Two Cupids squirt before: a lake behind
A light which in yourself you must perceive; Improves the keenness of the northern wind
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

His gardens next your admiration call,
To build, to plant, whatever you intend, On every side you look, behold the wall!
To rear the column, or the arch to bend,

No pleasing intricacies intervene,
To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot;

No artful wildness to perplex the scene ; In all, let Nature never be forgot.

Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, But treat the goddess like a modest fair,

And half the platform just reflects the other. Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare;

The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, Let not each beauty everywhere be spied, Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees; Where half the skill is decently to hide.

With here a fountain, never to be play'd ; He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, And there a summer-house that knows no shadu. Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds. Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers; Consult the genius of the place in all;

There gladiators fight, or die in flowers ; That tells the waters or to rise, or fall;

Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, Or helps th'ambitious hill the heavens to scale, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn. Or scoops in circling theatres the vale ;

My lord advances with majestic mien, Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen : Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; But soft-by regular approach-not yetNow breaks, or now directs th' intending lines; First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat ; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your Still follows sense, of every art the soul,

thighs, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. Spontaneous beauties all around advance,

His study! with what authors is it stor'd ? Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance; In books, not authors, curious is my lord ; Nature shall join you ; Time shall make it grow To all their dated backs he turns you round i A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow.

These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound

« ElőzőTovább »