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Ask we what makes one keep, and one bestow?
That power who bids the ocean ebb and flow,
Bids seed-time, harvest, equal course maintain,
Through reconciled extremes of drought and rain,
Builds life on death, on change duration founds,
And gives the eternal wheels to know their rounds.
Riches, like insects, when concealed they lie,
Wait but for wings, and in their season fly.
Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor;
This year a reservoir, to keep and spare;

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The next, a fountain, spouting through his heir,
In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
Old Cotta shamed his fortune and his birth,

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Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:
What though (the use of barbarous spits forgot)
His kitchen vied in coolness, with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with cresses stored,
With soups unbought and salads blessed his board?
If Cotta lived on pulse, it was no more
Than Brahmins, saints, and sages did before;
To cram the rich was prodigal expense,

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And who would take the poor from Providence?

Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old hall,
Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
No raftered roofs with dance and tabor sound,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey,
And turn the unwilling steeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curse the saved candle, and unopening door;
While the gaunt mastiff growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.

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Not so his son, he mark'd this oversight,
And then mistook reverse of wrong for right.
(For what to shun will no great knowledge need,
But what to follow, is a task indeed.) 23

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Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,

More go to ruin fortunes than to raise.

What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'squire, and deep divine!

Yet no mean motives this profusion draws,
His oxen perish in his country's cause;

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"Tis GEORGE and LIBERTY that crowns the cup,24

And zeal for that great House which eats him up.
The woods recede around the naked seat,
The sylvans groan-no matter-for the fleet:
Next goes his wool, to clothe our valiant bands;
Last, for his country's love, he sells his lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a pope.
And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils ?
In vain at Court the bankrupt pleads his cause,
His thankless country leaves him to her laws. 25
The sense to value riches, with the art

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To enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursued,

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Not sunk by sloth, not raised by servitude;
To balance fortune by a just expense,
Join with economy, magnificence;

With splendour, charity; with plenty, health;
Oh teach us, Bathurst! yet unspoil'd by wealth!
That secret rare, between the extremes to move
Of mad good-nature, and of mean self-love. 26

24 [In first edition

""Tis the dear Prince (Sir John) that crowns thy cup."] 25 After ver. 218, in the MS.

"Where one lean herring furnish'd Cotta's board,
And nettles grew, fit porridge for their lord;
Where mad good-nature, bounty misapplied,

In lavish Curio blazed awhile and died;

There Providence once more shall shift the scene,

And showing H-y, teach the golden mean."

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[The blank in the last line may be filled up with the name of Harley, second Earl of Oxford. (See verse 243.) He married the daughter and heiress of John, Duke of Newcastle. Pope very ingeniously makes these variations in the text convey compliments or censures as he chooses.]

26 After ver. 226, in the MS.

["The

B. To worth or want well weigh'd, be bounty given,
And ease, or emulate, the care of Heaven;
(Whose measure full, o'erflows on human race;)
Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace.
Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffused;
As poison heals, in just proportion used:
In heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies,
But, well dispersed, is incense to the skies.

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P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats ?

The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats.

Is there a lord, who knows a cheerful noon
Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon?

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Whose table, wit or modest merit share,

Un-elbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player?

Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part, 27

To ease the oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart ?

Where'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene,
And angels guard him in the golden mean!
There English bounty yet awhile may stand,
And honour linger ere it leaves the land.

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But all our praises why should lords engross ? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross: 28 Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.

"The secret rare, with affluence hardly join'd,
Which W-n lost, yet B- -y ne'er could find:
Still miss'd by Vice, and scarce by Virtue hit,
By G's goodness, or by S――'s wit."

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[We would offer as a conjecture the names of Wharton, Bishop Berkeley, Granville (Lord Lansdowne), and Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham.]

27 Edwin Harley, Earl of Oxford, the son of Robert, created Earl of Oxford, and Earl Mortimer by Queen Anne. This nobleman died [1741] regretted by all men of letters, great numbers of whom had experienced his benefits. He left behind him one of the most noble libraries in Europe.

28 The person here celebrated, who with a small estate actually performed all these good works, and whose true name was almost lost (partly by the title of the Man of Ross, given him by way of eminence, and partly by being buried without so much as an inscription) was called Mr. John Kyrle. He died in the year 1724, aged 90, and lies interred in the chancel of the church of Ross, in Herefordshire.

After ver. 250, in the MS.

"Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's shore,
Who sings not him, oh may he sing no more!"

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Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns toss'd,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
"The Man of Ross," each lisping 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,
Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate;
Him portion'd maids, apprenticed orphans bless'd,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now an useless race.

B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!

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Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply?
What mines to swell that boundless charity?

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P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possess'd-five hundred pounds a-year! Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your blaze! Ye little stars, hide your diminish'd rays.

B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone?

His race, his form, his name almost unknown?

P. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,

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Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, search it there, where to be born, and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history; 29
Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between;
Proved, by the ends of being, to have been.
When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend
The wretch, who living saved a candle's end;
Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands,
Belies his features, nay extends his hands;

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That live-long wig which Gorgon's self might own,
Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.

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Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend!
And see, what comfort it affords our end.

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,

The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,

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On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-tied curtains never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,

Great Villiers lies,30-alas! how changed from him,
That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!

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29 The parish register. Thus in the MS.

"The register enrolls him with his poor,

Tells he was born and died, and tells no more.
Just as he ought, he fill'd the space between;
Then stole to rest unheeded and unseen."

30 This lord, yet more famous for his vices than his misfortunes, having been possessed of about £50,000 a year, and passed through many of the highest posts in the kingdom, died in the year 1687, in a remote inn in Yorkshire, reduced to the utmost misery. [See Additional Notes.]

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