390

245

Who copies Your's, or Oxford's better part,
To ease th' opprefs'd, and raise the finking heart?
Where'er he fhines, oh Fortune, gild the scene,
And Angels guard him in the golden Mean !
There, English bounty yet a while may stand,
And Honour linger ere it leaves the land...

255

But all our praifes why fhould Lords engross?..
Rife honeft Mufe! and fing the MAN of Ross: 250
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the kies in ufelefs columns tøft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain.
Whole Causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whofe feats the weary Traveller repofe ?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rife?
"The MAN of Ross," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the Market-place with poor o'erspread !
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread :
He feeds yon Alms-house, neat, but void of state,
265

260

Where Age and Want fit smiling at the gate;
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick the MAN of Ross relieves,
Prefcribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives.
1270

Is there a variance? enter but his door,

n

Da

are the courts, and conteft is no more. Defpairing Quacks With curfes fled the place, And vile Attorneys, now an useless race.

B. Thrice happy man! enabled to purfue
What all fo with, but want the power to do!
Oh fay, what fums that generous hand supply?
What mines to fwell that boundiefs charity? 17

The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow ftrove with dirty red,
Great Villers lies-alas! how chang'd from him, 305
That life of Pleasure, and that foul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and Love;
Or just as gay, at Council, in a ring
Of mimick Statesmen, and their merry King.
No Wit to flatter, left of all his store !
No Fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And Fame, this lord of useless thousands ends.
His Grace's fate fage Cutler could forefee, 315
And well (he thought) advis'd him, "Live like me!"
As well his Grace reply'd. "Like you, Sir John?
"That I can do, when al! I have is gone.”
Refolve me, Reafon, which of these are worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purse?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confefs'd,
Arife and tell me, was thy death more bleís'd?"
Cutler faw tenants break, and houses fall,
For very want; he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger's power,
For very want; he could not pay a dower.
A few grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd,
Twas very want that fold them for two pound.
What! even deny'd a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the Doctor, and expelled the friend; 330
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had!
Cutler and Brutus dying, both exclaim,

320

325

Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name!"
Say, for fuch worth are other worlds prepar'd? 335
Or are they both, in this, their own reward?
275 A knotty point to which we now proceed.
But you are th'd I'll tell a tale B. Agreed,
P. Where London's column, pointing to the skies
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;
There dwelt a Citizen of fober fame,

P. Of Debts and Taxes, Wife and Children clear,
This man poffeft-five hundred pounds a year. 280 A plain good man, and Balaam was his name ;
Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;
your blaze!

Ye little Stars! hide your diminish'd rays.

B. And what? no monument, infcription, stone?
His race, his form, his name almost unknown? 285
P. Who builds a Church to God, and not to Fame,
Will never mark the marble with his Name:
Go, fearch it there, were to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between;
Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been.
When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend
The wretch who living fav'd a candle's end;
Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands,
Belies his features, nay extends his hands;
That live long wig, which Gorgon's felf might

290

own,

295

Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.
Behold what bleffings Wealth to life can lend !
And fee, what comfort it affords our end.
in the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,
The floors of plaifter, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw,

300

1349

345

His word would pafs for more than he was worth.
One folid difh his week-day meal affords,
An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's:
Conftant at Church, and Change; his gains were
fure,

His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.

The Devil was piqued fuch faintship to behold, And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old; 350 But Satan now is wifer than of yore,

And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Rouz'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds tweep

The furge, and plunge his Father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, 335
And two rich shipwrecks blefs the lucky fhore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes:
"Live like your felf," was foon my Lady's word;
And lo! two puddings (moak'd upon the board. 360
Afleep and naked as an Indian lay,
An honest factor stole a Gem away:
He pledg'd it to the knight, the knight had wit,
Some
So kept the Diamond, and the rogue was bit.

Some fcruple rofe, but thus he eas'd his thought, 365|
"I'll now give fixpence where I gave a groat;
"Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice-
"And am fo clear too of all other vice."

370

The Tempter faw his time: the work he ply'd;
Stocks and Subfcriptions pour on every fide,
Till all the Dæmon makes his full Defcent
In one abundant fhower of Cent per Cent,
Sinks deep within him, and poffeffes whole,
Then dubs Director, and fecures his foul.

375

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,
Afcribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he call'd a Bleffing, now was Wit,
And God's good Providence, a lucky Hit.
Things change their titles, as our manners turn:
His Compting-houfe employ'd the Sunday morn:

Seldom at Church, ('twas such a bufy life)
But duly fent his family and wife.
There (fo the Devil ordain'd) one Chriftmas-tide
My good old Lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd.

380

385

A Nymph of Quality admires our Knight;
He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite:
Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the Fair)
The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air:
First, for his Son a gay Commission buys,
Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies: 390
His Daughter flaunts a Vifcount's tawdry wife;
She bears a Coronet and P-x for life.

In Britain's Senate he a feat obtains,
And one more Penfioner St. Stephen gains.
My Lady falls to play. fo bad her chance,
He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;
The Houfe impeach him, Coningsby harangues;
The Court forfake him, and Sir Balaam hangs:
Wife, fon, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown:
The Devil and the King divide the prize,
And fad ir Balaam curfès God and dies.

MORAL ESSAYS..

EPISTLE IV.

TO

395

391

mere Luxury and Elegance. Inftanced in Architecture and Gardening, where all must be adapted to the Genius and Ufe of the Place, and the Beauties not forced into it, but refulting from it, ver. 50. How men are difappointed in their most expensive undertakings, fon want of this true Foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all; and the best Examples and rules will be but perverted into fomething burthenfome and ridiculous, ver. 65, Fc. to 92. A defeription of the falfe Tafe of Magnificence; the first grand error of which is, to imagine that Greatnefs confifts in the Size and Dimenfion, infead of the Proportion and Harmony of the whole, ver. 97. and the fecond, either in joining together Parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the Repetition of the fame too frequently, ver. 105, &c. A word or two of falle. Tafte in Books, in Mufic, and in Painting, even in Preaching and Prayer and lafly in Entertainments, ver. 133, &c. Yet PROVIDENCE is juftified in giving Wealth to be Squandered in this manner, fince it is differfed to the Poor and Laborious part of mankind, ver. 169 [recurring to what is laid down in the firft Book, Ep. ii. and in the Epifle preceding this, ver. 159, Sc.] What are the proper objets of Magnificence, and a proper field for the Expenfe of Great Men, ver. 177, c. and finally the Great and Public Works which become a Prince, ver. 191, to the end.

T

EPISTLE IV.

5

IS ftrange, the Mifer fhould his cares employ
To gain thofe riches he can ne'er enjoy:
Is it lefs ftrange, the Prodigal should waste
His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste ?.
Not for himfelf he fees, or hears, or eats;
Artifts must choofe his Pictures, Mufio, Meats:
He buys for Topham Drawings and Designs;
For Pembroke Statues, dirty Gods, and Coins;
Rare Monkish Manuscripts for Hearne alone,
And Books for Mead, and Butterflies for Sloane. 10
Think we all thefe are for himfelf? no more

Than his fine Wife, alas! or finer Whore.

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
Only to fhew, how many taftes he wanted.
What brought Sir Vifto's ill-got Wealth to waste ?

15

Some Dæmon whisper'd, "Vifto! have a Tafle."
Heaven vifits with a Tafte the wealthy Fool,
And needs no Rod but Ripley with a Rule.
See! fportive Fate to punish awkward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and fends him fuch a Guide:

RICHARD BOYLE EARL OF BURLINGTON. A ftanding fermon, at each year's expense,

ARGUMENT.

Of the Ufe of RICHES.

20

That never Coxcomb reach'd Magnificence!
You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse,
And pompous buildings once were things of Ufe.
Yet fhall (my Lord) your juft, your noble rules 25
Fill half the land with imitating Fools;

Who random drawings from your sheets fhall take, The Vanity of Expense in People of Wealth and Qua-And of one beauty many blunders make; lity. The abufe of the word Tafle, ver. 13. That Load fome vain Church with old Theatric state, the first principle and foundation in this, as in Turn Arts of triumph to a Garden gate: every thing elfe, is Good Senfe, ver. 40. The chief Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all proof of it is to follow Nature, even in works of On fome patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall;

30

Then

Then clap four flices of Pilafler on 't,
That, lac'd with bits of ruftic, makes a Front.
Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;
Conscious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.
Oft have you hinted to your brother Peer,
A certain truth, which many buy too dear.
Something there is more needful than Expense,
And fomething previous ev'n to Tafte-'tis Senfe:
Good Senfe, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And, though no Science, fairly worth the feven:
A Light, which in yourself you must perceive;
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend,
To fwell the Terras, or to fink the Grot;
In all, let Nature never be forgot.
But treat the Goddess like a modeft fair,
Nor over-drefs, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,
Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds.

One boundlefs Green, or flourish'd Carpet views, 95
With all the mournful family of Yews:

35 The thriving plants ignoble broomsticks made,
Now fweep thofe Alleys they were born to shade.
At Timon's Villa let us pafs a day,
Where all cry out,
"What fums are thrown away!"
So proud, fo grand; of that ftupendous air,
40 Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatnefs, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought
To compafs this, his Building is a Town,
His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down:
Who but must laugh, the Mafter when he fees,
A puny infect, fhivering at a breeze!

45

Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground,
Two Cupids fquirt before: a Lake behind
50 Improves the keenness of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On every fide you look, behold the Wall!
No pleafing Intricacies intervene,

55

60

Confult the Genius of the Place in all:
That tells the Waters or to rife, or fall;
Or helps th' ambitious Hill the heavens to scale,
Or fcoops in circling theatres the Vale;
Calls-in the country, catches opening glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies fhades from fhades;
Now breaks, or now directs th' intending Lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, defigns.
Still follow Sense, of every Art the Soul,
Parts answering parts hall flide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from Difficulty, ftrike from Chance;
Nature fhall join you; Time shall make it grow,
A Work to wonder at-perhaps a Srow.

65

70

Without it, proud Verfailles! thy glory falls;
And Nero's 1erraces defert their walls:
The vaft Parterres a thousand hands fhall make,
Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a Lake:
Or cut wide views through mountains to
Plain,

You'll with your hill or shelter'd feat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
"Nor in an Hermitage fet Dr. Clarke.

Behold Villario's ten years toil complete;
His Quincunx darkens, his Efpaliers meet;
The wood fupports the Plain, the parts unite,
And strength of Shade contends with ftrength
Light;

105

110

120

No artful Wildness to perplex the fcene;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform juft reflects the other.
The fuffering eye inverted Nature fees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees;
With here a Fountain, never to be play'd;
And there a Summer-houfe that knows no shade ;
Here Amphitrite fails through myrtle bowers:
There Gladiators fight, or die in flowers;
Unwater'd fee the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And swallows rooft in Nilus' dusty Urn.

125

My Lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be feen:
But foft-by regular approach-not yet-
Firft through the length of yon hot Terrace fweat;
And when up ten fteep flopes you've dragg'd your
thighs,

Juft at his Study door he'll blefs your eyes.

140

His Study! with what Authors is it flor'd? In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round; 135 the Thefe Aldus printed, thof- Du Sueil has bound. 75 Lo, fome are Vellom, and the rest as good For all his Lordfhip knows, but they are Wood. For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look, Thefe fhelves admit not any modern book. And now the Chapel's filver bell you hear, 80 That fummons you to all the Pride of Prayer: Light quirks of Mufic, broken and uneven, of Make the foul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted Cielings you devoutly stare, Where fprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, 85 And bring all Paradife before your eye. To reft, the Cushion and foft Dean invite, Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.

A waving Glow the bloomy beds difplay,
Bluthing in bright diverfities of day,
With filver-quivering rills mæander'd o'er-
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more;
Tir'd of the fcene Parterres and Fountains yield,
He finds at laft he better likes a Field.
Through his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus
ftray'd,

Or fate delighted in the thickening fhade,
With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet,
Or fee the stretching branches long to meet!
His Son's fine Taste an opener Vista loves,
For to the Dryads of his Father's groves;

But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps fcrape the marble Hall:
The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
90 And gaping Tritons fpew to wash their face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
A folemn Sacrifice perform'd in Itate,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.

150

Sa

So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear
Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there. 160
Between each Act the trembling falvers ring,
From foup to fweet-wine, and God blefs the King.
In plenty ftarving, tantaliz'd in ftate,
And complaifantly help'd to all I hate,
Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curfe fuch lavish coft, and little skill,
And fwear no day was ever paft fo ill..

10

Huge Theatres, that now unpeopled Woods,
Now drain'd a diftant country of her Floods:
Fanes, which admiring Gods with pride furvey;
165 Statues of Men, fcarce lefs alive than they!
Some felt the filent stroke of mouldering age,
Some hoftile fury, fome religious rage.
Barbarian blindness, Chriftian zeal confpire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruins fav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preferves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce difputes purfue,
And give to Titus old Vefpafian's due.
Ambition figh'd: fhe found it vain to truft
The faithlefs column, and the crumbling buft:
Huge moles, whofe fhadow stretch'd from fhore to
fhore,

170

Yet hence the poor are cloath'd, the hungry fed;
Health to himself, and to his infants bread,
The labourer bears: What his hard heart denics,
His charitable vanity fupplies.

Another age fhall fee the golden ear
Imbrown the flope, and nod on the parterre,
Deep harvest bury all his pride has planu'd,
And laughing Ceres re-affume the land.

175

Their ruins perifh'd, and their place no more! Convinc'd fhe now contracts her vast design, 180 And all her triumphs fhrink into a coin

Who then fhall grace, or who improve the foil?
Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle.
'Tis ufe alone that fanctifies expenfe,
And fplendor borrows all her rays from fenfe.
His Father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he increase:
Whofe chearful tenants blefs their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the foil;
Whofe ample lawns are not afham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deferving fteed;
Whofe rifing forefts, not for pride or show,
But future buildings, future navies, grow:
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First shade a country, and then raise a town.

You too proceed! make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;

Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,

185

190

395

15

20

25

A narrow orb each crouded conqueft keeps,
Beneath her palm here fad Judea weeps.
Now fcantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are feen the proftrate Nile or Rhine;
A fmall Euphrates through the piece is roil'd,
And little Eagles wave their wings in gold.
The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Through climes and ages bears each form and

name:

30

35

In one fhort view fubjected to our eye
Gods, Emperors, Heroes, Sages, Beauties, lie.
With fharpen'd fight pale Antiquaries pore,
Th' infcription value, but the ruft adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The facred ruft of twice ten hundred years!
To gain Pefcennius one employs his schemes,
One grafps a Cecrops in extatic dreams.
Poor Vadius, long with learn'd fpleen devour'd,
Can tafte no pleasure fince his Shield was fcour'd:
200 And Curio, reftlefs by the Fair-one's fide,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
Till Kings call forth th'ideas of your mind,
(Proud to accomplish what fuch hands defign'd)
Bid Harbours open, public Ways extend,
Bid Temples worthier of the God afcend;
Bid the Broad Arch the dangerous flood contain,
The Mole projected break the roaring Main;
Back to his bounds their fubject fea command,
And roll obedient rivers through the land;
These honours, peace to happy Britain brings;
Thefe are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings,

Oh, when shall Britain, confcious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals fee her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish'd realms fupply recording gold?
Here, rifing bold, the Patriot's honeft face;
There, Warriors frowning in hiftoric brass:
Then future ages with delight fhall fee,
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
Or in fair ferics laurel'd bards be shown,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison
Then Thall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
On the caft ore, another Pollio, fhine:
With afpect open fhall erect his head,
And round the orb in lafting notes be read,

"Statefman, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere,
"In action faithful, and in honour clear;
"Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end,
"Who gair'd no title, and who loft no friend;
"Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
"And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Mufe he lov'd."

70

Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lie:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace; 35
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I fit with fad civility; I read

With honeft anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,
This faving council," Keep your piece nine years."

40

Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by foft Zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,

EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT: Oblig'd by hunger, and requeft of friends:

BEING THE

PROLOGUE

TO THE

SATIRE S.

"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take

"it;

45

Three things another's modeft wifhes bound, My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound,

50

Pitholeon fends to me: "You know his Grace: "I want a Patron; ask him for a Place." Pitholeon libel'd me-" but here's a letter "Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. "Dare you refufe him? Curll invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine." Blefs nie! a packet." "Tis'a ftranger fues, 55

P. SHUT, Thut the door, good John! fatigu'd I A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufe."

faid,

Tye up the knocker, fay I'm fick, I'm dead.
The Dog farrages! nay, 'tis paft a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnaffus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walis can guard me, or what fhades
hide?

If I diflike it, "Furies, death and rage!"
If I approve," Commend it to the Stage."
There (thank my ftars) my whole commiffion
ends,

60

5 The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fir'd that the house reject him, "Sdeath! I'll
"print it,

can

"And fhame the fools-Your interest, Sir, with "Lintot."

Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: "Not, Sir, if you revife it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks: At laft he whispers, “Do'; and we go fnacks." Glad of a quarich, frait clap the door, "Sir, let me fee your works and you no more." of lisfang, when Midas' ears began to spring, Midas, a facred perfon and a King) His very Minifter, who spy'd them first, 15(Some fay his Queen) was fore'd to fpeak, or

A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to croft,
Who pens a flanza, when he fhould engros?
is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
With defperate charcoal round his darken'á walls?

20

25

All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble ftrain'
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whole giddy fon neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the caufe:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,
And curfes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope."
Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle fong)
What drop or noftrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love? 30
A dire dilemma! either way I'm fped;

If foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.

And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,
When every coxcomb perks them in my face? 75
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous
things,

I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;
Keep clofe to cars, and thofe let alles prick,
'Tis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret pals,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an Als:
The truth once told (and wherefore fhould we
lie?)

The Queen of Midas flept, and fo may I.

You think this eruel? Take it for a rule,
No creature fmarts fo little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
85

Thou unconcern'd can't hear the mighty crack: