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They might (were Harpax not too wife to spend)
To fome, indeed, Heaven grants the happier fate,
Perhaps you think the Poor might have their part;
"God cannot love (fays Blunt, with tearless eyes)
Yet to be just to these poor men of pelf,
Why Shylock wants a meal, the caufe is found;
Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous fum?
Much-injur'd Blunt! why bears he Britain's hate? A wizard told him in thefe words our fate: "At length Corruption, like a general flood, 135 (So long by watchful Minifters withstood) "Shall deluge all; and Avarice, creeping on, Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the Sun; "Statesman and Patriot ply alike the Stocks,
Peerefs and Butler share alike the Box, "And Judges job, and Bishops bite the town, "And mighty Dukes pack cards for half a crown. "See Britain funk in lucre's fordid charms,
"And France reveng'd of ANNE's and EDWARD'S "arms!"
'Twas no Court-badge, great Scrivener, fir'd thy brain, Nor lordly Luxury, nor City Gain:
No, 'twas thy righteous end, afham'd to fee
Senates degenerate, Patriots difagree,
And nobly wishing Party-rage to cease,
To buy both fides, and give thy Country peace. 150
"All this is madness," cries a sober fage:
But who, my friend, has reason in his rage?
Hear then the truth: ""Tis Heaven each Paffion fends, "And different men directs to different ends. "Extremes in Nature equal good produce, "Extremes in Man concur to general use." Afk we what makes one keep, and one bestow? That Power who bids the ocean ebb and flow, Bids feed-time, harvest, equal course maintain, 165 Through reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain, Builds Life on Death, on Change Duration founds, And gives th' eternal wheels to know their rounds. Riches, like infects, when conceal'd they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. Who fees pale Mammon pine amidst his ftore, Sees but a backward fteward for the Poor; This year a Refervoir, to keep and spare; The next, a Fountain, spouting through his Heir, In lavish streams to quench a Country's thirst, And men and dogs fhall drink him till they burst. Old Cotta fham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:
What though (the ufe of barbarous spits forgot)
His court with nettles, moats with creffes ftor'd,
Than Bramins, Saints, and Sages did before;
To cram the rich, was prodigal expence,
And who would take the Poor from Providence ?
Like fome lone Chartreux ftands the good old Hall, Silence without, and fafts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor found,
Not fo his Son: he mark'd this overfight,
Yet fure,, of qualities deferving praise,
More go to ruin Fortunes, than to raise.
What flaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'Squire, and deep Divine!
Yet no mean motives this profufion draws,
His oxen perish in his country's caufe;
'Tis GEORGE and LIBERTY that crowns the cup, And Zeal for that great House which eats him
The woods recede around the naked feat,
With Splendor, Charity; with Plenty, Health;
After ver. 218, in the MS.
Where one lean herring furnish'd Cotta's board,
After ver. 226, in the MS.
The fecret rare, which affluence hardly join'd,