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Alike in nothing but one lust of gold,
Just half the land would buy, and half be sold:
Their country's wealth our mightier misers drain;
Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main ;
The rest, some farm the poor-box, some the pews;
Some keep assemblies, and would keep the stews;
Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn;
Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn;
While with the silent growth of ten per cent., 132
In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content.
Of all these ways, if each pursues his own,
Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone:
But show me one who has it in his power
To act consistent with himself an hour.
Sir Job sail'd forth, the evening bright and still;
'No place on earth,' he cried, 'like Greenwich-
hill!'

Up starts a palace: lo, the obedient base

140

Slopes at its foot; the woods its sides embrace;
The silver Thames reflects its marble face.
Now let some whimsey, or that devil within,
Which guides all those who know not what they

mean,

But give the knight, or give his lady, spleen; 'Away, away! take all your scaffolds down; For snug's the word: my dear! we'll live in town.'

At amorous Flavio is the stocking thrown? That very night he longs to lie alone.

151

The fool, whose wife elopes some thrice a quarter,
For matrimonial solace dies a martyr.
Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch,
Transform themselves so strangely as the rich?
Well, but the poor-the poor have the same itch;
They change their weekly barber, weekly news,
Prefer a new japanner to their shoes,

Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run,
They know not whither, in a chaise and one :
They hire their sculler; and when once aboard,
Grow sick, and damn the climate-like a lord. 160

You laugh, half beau, half sloven if I stand,
My wig all powder, and all snuff my band;
You laugh, if coat and breeches strangely vary;
White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary !*
But when no prelate's lawn, with hair-shirt lined,
Is half so incoherent as my mind;

When (each opinion with the next at strife,
One ebb and flow of follies all my life)

171

I plant, root up; I build, and then confound;
Turn round to square, and square again to round:
You never change one muscle of your face;
You think this madness but a common case;
Nor once to Chancery, nor to Hale + apply;
Yet hang your lip, to see a seam awry!
Careless how ill I with myself agree,
Kind to my dress, my figure, not to me.
Is this my guide, philosopher, and friend?
This he, who loves me, and who ought to mend ?
Who ought to make me (what he can, or none)
That man divine whom Wisdom calls her own;
Great without title, without fortune bless'd, 181
Rich e'en when plunder'd, honour'd while op-
press'd;

Loved without youth, and follow'd without power;
At home, though exiled; free, though in the
Tower;

In short, that reasoning, high, immortal thing,
Just less than Jove, and much above a king;
Nay, half in heaven; except (what's mighty odd)
A fit of vapours clouds this demigod.

*Lady Mary Wortley Montague.

+ Dr. Hale, of Lincoln's-inn-fields, a physician celebrated in cases of insanity.

THE FOURTH EPISTLE

OF THE

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.*

A FRAGMENT.

SAY, St. John, who alone peruse
With candid eye, the mimic Muse,
What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws!
Is then a greater work in hand,
Than all the tomes of Haines's band?
'Or shoots he folly as it flies;
Or catches manners as they rise ;'
Or, urged by unquench'd native heat,
Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat? 10
Where, emulous of Chartres' fame,
E'en Chartres' self is scarce a name.

To you, the all-envied gift of heaven,
The indulgent gods, unask'd, have given
A form complete in every part;
And, to enjoy that gift, the art.

What could a tender mother's care
Wish better to her favourite heir,
Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours,
A stock of health, and golden showers,
And graceful fluency of speech,
Precepts before unknown to teach?

20

*It has been doubted whether Pope was the author of this fragment.

U

Amidst thy various ebbs of fear,
And gleaming hope, and black despair,
Yet let thy friend this truth impart;
A truth I tell with bleeding heart,
In justice for your labours past;
That every day shall be your last;
That every hour you life renew
Is to your injured country due.

In spite of fears, of mercy, spite,
My genius still must rail and write.
Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat,
And mingle with the grumbling great;
There, half-devour'd by spleen, you'll find
The rhyming bubbler of mankind;
There, objects of our mutual hate,
We'll ridicule both Church and State.

30

THE SIXTH EPISTLE

OF THE

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

TO MR. MURRAY.*

'Nor to admire, is all the art I know; To make men happy, and to keep them so.' Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech,

So take it in the very words of Creech.

10

This vault of air, this congregated ball, Self-centred sun, and stars that rise and fall, There are, my friend! whose philosophic eyes Look through, and trust the Ruler with his skies; To him commit the hour, the day, the year, And view this dreadful all without a fear. Admire we then what earth's low entrails hold, Arabian shores, or Indian seas enfold; All the mad trade of fools and slaves for gold? Or popularity? or stars and strings? The mob's applauses, or the gifts of kings? Say, with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze, And pay the great our homage of amaze.

20

If weak the pleasure that from these can spring, The fear to want them is as weak a thing: Whether we dread, or whether we desire, In either case, believe me, we admire : Whether we joy or grieve, the same the curse; Surprised at better, or surprised at worse. Thus good or bad to one extreme betray

The unbalanced mind, and snatch the man away:

* Hon. William Murray, afterwards Lord Mansfield.

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