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Heaven vifits with a Tafte the wealthy Fool,
And needs no Rod but Ripley with a Rule.
See! fportive Fate, to punish aukward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and fends him fuch a Guide:
A ftanding fermon, at each year's expence,
That never Coxcomb reach'd magnificence!

You fhow us, Rome was glorious, not profufe,
And pompous buildings once were things of Ufe.
Yet fhall (my Lord) your juft, your noble rules
Fill half the land with imitating Fools;

Who random drawings from your fheets shall take,
And of one beauty many blunders make;

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Load fome vain Church with old Theatric state,
Turn Arts of triumph to a Garden-gate;

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Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all

On fome patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall;
Then clap four flices of Pilafter 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;
Confcious 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:

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40 Some

VARIATION.

After ver. 22. in the MS.

Muft Bishops, Lawyers, Statefmen, have the skill To build, to plant, judge paintings, what you will? Then why not Kent as well our treaties draw, Bridgman explain the Gofpel, Gibbs the Law?

Something there is more needful than Expence,
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 modest 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.

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He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,

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Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds.

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 Senfe, of every Art the Soul,
Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from Difficulty, frike from Chance;
Nature shall join you; Time fhall make it grow
A Work to wonder at-perhaps a Srow.

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Without

Without it, proud Versailles! thy glory falls: And Nero's Terraces 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 the Plain, 75
You'll with your hill or shelter'd feat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,

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Nor in an Hermitage fet Dr. Clarke.
Behold Villario's ten years toil complete ;
His Quincunx darkens, his Espaliers meet;
The wood fupports the Plain, the parts unite,
And strength of Shade contends with ftrength of Light;
A waving Glow the bloomy beds display,
Blushing in bright diverfities of day,

With filver-quivering rills mæander'd o'er

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Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more;

Tir'd of the scene Parterres and Fountains yield.
He finds at laft he better likes a Field.

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Through his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus ftray'd, Or fate delighted in the thickening fhade, With annual joy the reddening fhoots to greet, Or see the stretching branches long to meet! His Son's fine Tafte an opener Vista loves, Foe to the Dryads of his Father's groves ; One boundless Green, or flourish'd Carpet views,

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With all the mournful family of Yews:
The thriving plants ignoble broomsticks made,
Now sweep thofe Alleys they were born to fhade.
At Timon's Villa let us pass a day,

Where all cry out, "What fums are thrown away!"

So

So proud, fo grand; of that stupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatness, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdingnag before your thought.
To compaís this, his Building is a Town,
His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down :
Who but muft laugh, the Mafter when he fees,
A puny infect, shivering 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,

fide you

On every
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 suffering 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 see the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty Urn.
My Lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen :
But foft-by regular approach-not yet-

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First through the length of yon hot Terrace fweat; 130

And

And when up ten steep 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, thofe Du Sueil has bound.
Lo, fome are Vellom, and the rest 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.

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On painted Cielings you devoutly stare,

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Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expanfion lie,

And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To reft, the Cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.

But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps fcrape the marble Hall:
The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons spew 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 state,

You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd fwear
Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there.

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