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So proud, fo grand; of that stupendous air,
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 muft laugh, the Master when he sees,
A puny infect, fhivering at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground,
Two Cupids fquirt before: a Lake behind
Improves the keennefs of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On every fide you look, behold the Wall!
No pleafing Intricacies intervene,
No artful Wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform just 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-house that knows no fhade;
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' dufty Urn.

My Lord advances with majestic mien,.
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be feen:
But foft-by regular approach-not yet-
First through the length of yon hot Terrace sweat ; 130

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And when up ten fteep flopes you've dragg'd your thighs,
Juft at his Study-door he 'll bless your eyes.

His Study! with what Authors is it stor❜d?
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round;
Thefe Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound.
Lo, fome are Vellom, and the reft as good
For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood.
For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the Chapel's filver bell you hear,
That fummons you to all the Pride of Prayer:
Light quirks of Mufic, broken and uneven,
Make the foul dance upon a jig to Heaven.
On painted Cielings you devoutly ftare,
Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To reft, the Cushion and foft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.

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But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call; A hundred footsteps scrape the marble Hall : The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace, And gaping Tritons fpew to wash your face. Is this a dinner? this a genial room? No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb. A folemn Sacrifice perform'd in ftate,. You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying courfe, you'd swear Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there. 160

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Between each A&t the trembling falvers ring,
From foup to fweet-wine, and God bless 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 cost, and little skill,
And fwear no day was ever past so ill.

Yet hence the Poor are cloath'd, the Hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread, 170

The Labourer bears: What his hard Heart denies,
His charitable Vanity supplies.

Another Age fhall fee the golden Ear
Imbrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre,
Deep Harvest bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-affume the land.

Who then shall grace, or who improve the Soil?
Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle.
'Tis Ufe alone that fanctifies Expence,
And Splendor borrows all her rays from Senfe.
His Father's Acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he increase:
Whose 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 steed;
Whofe rifing forefts, not for pride or fhow,
But future Buildings, future Navies, grow:
Let his plantations ftretch from down to down,
Firft fhade a Country, and then raise a Town.

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You

You too proceed! make falling Arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themfelves reftore,
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;
Thefe Honours, Peace to Happy Britain brings;
These are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings.

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MORAL

MORA L

ESSAY S.

EPISTLE

V.

TO MR. ADDISON, Occafioned by his Dialogues on MEDALS. THIS was originally written in the year 1715, when Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of Medals; it was fome time before he was Secretary of State; but not published till Mr. Tickell's Edition of his works; at which time the verfes on Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were added, viz. in 1720.

As the third Epiftle treated of the extremes of Avarice and Profufion; and the fourth took up one particular branch of the latter, namely, the Vanity of Expence in people of wealth and quality, and was therefore a corollary to the third; fo this treats of one circumftance of that Vanity, as it appears in the common collectors of old coins; and is, therefore, a corollary to the fourth.

EE the wild Wafte of all-devouring years! Rome her own fad fepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! 'The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead; Imperial wonders rais'd on Nations spoil'd, Where mix'd with Slaves the groaning Martyr toil'd: Huge Theatres, that now unpeopled Woods, Now drain'd a diftant country of her Floods:

5

Fanes,

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