Whether the charmer finner it, or faint it,
If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
Come then, the colours and the ground prepare;
Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air;
Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere the change, the Cynthia of this minute.
Rufa, whofe eye quick glancing o'er the Park,
Attracts each light gay meteor of a fpark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa ftudying Locke,
As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty fmock;
Or Sappho at her toilet's greafy talk,
With Sappho fragrant at an ev'ning mask :
So morning infects that in muck begun,
Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the fetting fun.
How foft is Silia! fearful to offend;
The frail one's advocate, the weak one's friend!
To her, Califta prov'd her conduct nice;
And good Simplicius asks of her advice.
Sudden, the ftorms! the raves! You tip the wink,
But fpare your cenfure; Silia does not drink.
All eyes may fee from what the change arose;
All eyes may fee-a pimple on her nofe.

Papillia, wedded to her am'rous fpark,
Sighs for the fhades-"How charming is a park!"
A park is purchas'd; but the fair he fees
All bath'd in tears-" Oh odious, odious trees!
Ladies, like variegated tulips, fhow,
'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe;
Fine by defect, and delicately weak,
Their happy fpots their nice admirer take.
Twas thus Calypfo once each heart alarm'd,
Aw'd without virtue, without beauty charm'd;
Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes;
Lefs wit than mimic, more a wit than wife;
Strange graces ftill, and stranger flights fhe
Was just not ugly, and was juft not mad;
Yet ne'er fo fure our paffion to create,
As when the touch'd the brink of all we hate.
Narcilla's nature, tolerably mild,

As Helluo, late dictator of the feast,
The nofe of haut-gout, and the tip of taste,
Critiqu'd your wine, and analys'd your meat,
Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat:
So Philomedé, lect'ring all mankind,
On the foft paffion, and the tafte refin'd,
Th' addrefs, the delicacy, ftoops at once,
And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce.

Flavia's a wit, has too much fenfe to pray;
To toaft our wants and wifhes, is her way;
Nor afks of God, but of her ftars, to give
The mighty bleffing, "while we live, to live."
Then all for death, that opiate of the foul!
Lucretia's dagger, Rofamonda's bowl.
Say, what can cause fuch impotence of mind ?
A fpark too fickle, or a fpoule too kind.
Wife wretch! with pleafures too refin'd to please ;
With too much spirit to be e'er at eafe;
With too much quicknefs ever to be taught;
With too much thinking to have common
thought;

You purchafe pain with all that joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Turn then from wits; and look on Simo's
mate;

No afs fo meck, no afs so obstinate.
Or her that owns her faults, but never mends,
Because the 's honeft, and the best of friends.
Or her, whnfe life the church and scandal fhare,
For ever in a paffion, or a pray'r.

Or her, who laughs at Hell, but (like her Grace)
Cries, "Ah! how charming, if there's no fuch
"place!"

Or who in fweet viciffitude appears had,Of mirth and opium, ratafie and tears,

To make a wash, would hardly stew a child;
Has ev'n been prov'd to grant a lover's pray'r,
And paid a tradefman once to make him stare;
Gave almis at Eafter, in a Chriftian trim,
And made a widow happy, for a whim.
Why then declare good-nature is her fcorn,
When 'tis by that alone the can be borne?
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to pleafure, yet a flave to fame :
Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres:
Now confcience chills her, and now paffion burns;
And atheifni and religion take their turns;
A very Heathen in the carnal part,
Yet ftill a fad good Christian at her heart.
See Sin in state majestically drunk ;
Proud as a peerefs, prouder as a punk;
Chafte to her husband, frank to all befide,
A teeming miftrefs, but a barren bride.
What then? let blood and body bear the fault,
Her head's untouch'd, that noble feat of thought:
Such this day's doctrine-in another fit
She fins with poets thro' pure love of wit.
What has not fir'd her bofom or her brain?
Cafar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlema'ne.

The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,
To kill thofe foes to fair ones, time and thought!
Woman and fool are two hard things to hit;
For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.

But what are thefe to great Atoffa's mind?
Scarce once herfelf, by turns all womankind!
Who, with herself, or others, from her birth
Finds all her life one warfare upon earth:
Shines in expofing knaves, and painting fools,
Yet is whate'er the hates and ridicules.
No thought advances, but her eddy brain
Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
Full fixty years the world has been her trade,
The wifeft fool much time has ever made.
From loveless youth to unrespected age,
No paffion gratified, except her rage,
So much the fury ftill outran the wit,
The pleasure mifs'd her, and the fcandal hit.
Who breaks with her, provokes revenge
from
Hell;
But he's a bolder man who dares be well.
Her ev'ry turn with violence purfu'd,
No more a ftorm her hate than gratitude:
To that each paffion turns, or foon or late;
Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate:
Superiors death! and equals! what a curse!
But an inferior not dependant! worse.
Offend her, and the knows not to forgive;
Oblige her, and the 'I hate you while

you

live: But

Kept drofs for ducheffes, the world fhall know it," To you gave fenfe, good-humour, and a poct.

Or find some doctor that would fave the life
Of wretched Shylock, fpite of Shylock's wife:
But thoufands die, without or this or that;
Die, and endow a college, or a cat!

To fome, indeed, Heaven grants the happier fate,
T'enrich a baftard, or a son they hate.

Lefs mad the wildeft whimfy we can frame,
Than even that paffion, if it has no aim;
For though fuch motives folly you may call,
The folly's greater to have none at all.
Hear then the truth: "'Tis heaven each paffion
*fends,

And different men directs to diff'rent ends.
"Extremes in nature equal good produce;
"Extremes in man concur to gen'ral use.”
Afk we what makes one keep, and one bestow?
That Pow'r who bids the ocean ebb and flow,
Bids feed-time, harvest, equal course maintain,
Thro' 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 feafon fly.
Who fees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward fteward for the poor:
This year a refervoir, to keep and spare ;
The next, a fountain, fpouting thro' his heir,
In lavish ftreams to quench a country's thirst;
And men and dogs fhall drink him till they burst.

Perhaps you think the poor might have their"
part?
[heart:
Bond damus the poor, and hates them from his
The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule,
That ev'ry man in want is knave or fool:
• God cannot love (fays Blunt, with tearlefs eyes)
'The wretch he ftarves-and pioutly denies:
But the good bifhop, with a meeker air,
Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care.
Yet to be just to these poor men of pelf,
Each does but hate his neighbour as himself:
Damn'd to the mines, an equal fate betides
The flave that digs it, and the flave that hides.
B. Who fuffer thus, mere charity fhould own,
Muft act on motives powerful, though unknown.
P.Some war, fome plague, or famine they forefee,
Some revelation hid from you and me.
Why Shylock wants a meal, the cause is found;
He thinks a loaf will rife to fifty pound.
What made directors cheat in South-fea year?
To live on ven'fon when it fold fo dear.
Afk you why Phryne the whole auction buys?
Phryne forefees a general excife.
Why the and Sappho raise that monftrous sum ?
Alas! they fear a man will coft a plum.

Wife Peter fees the world's refpect for gold,
And therefore hopes this nation may be fold:
Glorious ambition! Peter, fwell thy ftore,
And be what Rome's great Didius was before.
The crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
To juft three millions ftinted modeft Gage.
But nobler fcenes Maria's dreams unfold,
Hereditary realms, and worlds of gold.
Congenial fouls! whofe life one av'rice joins,
And one fate buries in th' Auftrian mines.
Much-injur'd Blunt! why bears he Britain's hate?
A wizard told him in thefe words our fate :
"At length corruption, like a gen'ral flood
"(So long by watchful minifters withstood),
"Shall deluge all; and av'rice, creeping on,
"Spread like a low-born mift, and blot the fun;
“Statelinan and patriot ply alike the stocks,
"Peerefs and butler fhare 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!"
[brain,
'Twas no court badge, great Scriv'ner! fir'd thy
Nor lordly luxury, nor city gain:
No, 'twas thy righteous end, afham'd to fee
Senates degen'rate, patriots disagree,
And nobly wishing party-rage to cease,
To buy both fides, and give thy country peace.
"All this is madness," cries a fober fage:
But who, my friend, has reason in his rage?
"The ruling paffion, be it what it will,
"The ruling paffion conquers reason still."

Old Cotta fham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:
What tho' (the use of barb'rous fpits forgot)
His kitchen vied in coolnefs with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with creffes ftor'd,
With foups unbought and fallads bleft his board?
If Cotta liv'd on pulfe, it was no more
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,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with fighs the fmokeless tow'rs furvey,
And turn th' unwilling fteeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the foreft o'er,

Curfe the fav'd candle, and unop'ning door;
While the gaunt maftiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar, whom he longs to eat.

Not fo his fon, he mark'd this overfight,
And then mistook reverse of wrong for right.
(For what to fhun will no great knowledge need;
But what to follow is a talk indeed.)
Yet fure, of qualities deferving praife,
More go to ruin fortunes than to raise.
What flaughter'd hecatombs, what flcods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'fquire, and deep divine!
Yet no mean motive this profufion draws,
His oxen perish in his country's caufe;
'Tis George and Liberty that crowns the cup,
And zeal for that great houfe which eats him up.
The woods recede around the naked feat,
The Sylvans groan-no matter--for the fleet:
Next goes his wool-to clothe our valiant bands;
Laft, for his country's love, he fells his lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a

pope.

And fhall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils?

In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his caufe;
His thankless country leaves him to her laws.

The fente to value riches, with the art
T'enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,
Not meauly, nor ambitioufly purfued,
Not funk by floth, nor rais'd by fervitude,
To balance fortune by a juft expence,
Join with economy, magnificence;

With fplendour, charity; with plenty, health!
Oh teach us, Bathurst yet unfpoil'd by wealth!
That fecret rare, between th' extremes to move,
Of mad good-nature, and of mean felf-love.
B. To worth or want well weigh'd be bounty
And cafe or emulate the care of Heaven; [given,
(Whofe measure full o'erflows on human race)
Mend fortune's fault, and juftify her grace.
Wealth in the grofs is death, but life diffus'd;
As poifon heals, in juft proportion us'd:
In heaps, like ambergris, a ftink it lies;
But well difpers'd is incenfe to the skies.

P. Who farves by nobles, or with nobles eats? The wretch that trufts them, and the rogue that cheats.

Is there a lord, who knows a cheerful noon
Without a fiddler, flatt'rer, or buffoon?
Whofe table wit or modeft merit share,
Unclbow'd by a gamefter, pimp, or play'r?
Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part,
To cafe th' opprest, and raise the finking heart?
Where'er he thines, oh fortune gild the fcene,
And angels guard him in the golden mean!
There English bounty yet awhile may stand,
And honour linger ere it leaves the land.

But all our praifes why fhould lords engrofs?
Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing the Man of Rofs:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarfe applaufe refounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry
brow?

From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the fkies in ufelefs columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,
But clear and artlefs, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain.
Whofe caufe way parts the vale with fhady rows
Whofe feats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rife?
"The Man of Rofs," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erfpread !
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon alins-house, neat, but void of state,
Where and want fit finiling at the gate;
age
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blefs'd,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick the Man of Rofs relieves,
Prefcribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more.
Defpairing quacks with curfes fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now an ufelefs race.

B. Thrice happy man enabled to purfue
What all fo with, but want the pow'r to do!
Oh fay, what fums that gen rous hand supply?
What mines to fwell that boundless charity?

9

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man poffefs'd-five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your blaze!

Ye little ftars! hide your diminish'd rays.

B. And what no monument, infcription, stone?
His race, his form, his name almoft unknown >

P. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, feach it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the hiftory;
Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between;
Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been.
When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend
The wretch, who living fav'd a candle's end;
Should'ring God's altar a vile image ftands,
Belies his features, nay extends his hands;
That live-long wig which Gorgon's self might
Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone. [own,
Behold what bleflings wealth to life can lend !
And fee what comfort it affords our end.
In the worft inn's worst room, with mat half hung,
The floors of plafter, and the walls of dung,
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 ftrove with dirty red,
Great Villers lies-alas! how chang'd from him
That life of pleasure, and that foul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bow'r of wanton Shrew foury and love;
Or just as gay, at council, in a ring
Of mimic ftatefimen, and their merry king.
No wit to flatter, left of all his store!
No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame-this lord of ufelefs thoufands ends.
His grace's fate fage Cutler could forefee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, "Live like
"me."

As well his grace replied, "Like you, Sir John!
"That I can do, when all I have is gone."
Refolve me, Reafon, which of thefe is worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purfe?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confess'd;
Arife, and tell me, was thy death more blefs'd?
Cutler faw tenants break, and houfes fall,
For very want; he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger's pow'r,
For very want; he could not pay a dow'r.
A few grey hairs his rev'rend temples crown'd,
'Twas
very want that fold them for two pound.
What even denied a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend?
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had!
Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim,

Virtue! and wealth! what are ye but a name ''
Say, for fuch worth are other worlds prepar'd?
Or are they bath in this their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tir'd-I'll tell a tale-B. Agreed.

P. Where London's column, pointing at the
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; [fkies,

There