The reft, fome farm the poor-box, fome the pews; Some keep affemblies, and would keep the ftews; Some with fat bucks on childlefs dotards fawn; Some win rich Widows by their chine and brawn; While, with the filent growth of ten per cent. In dirt and darkness, hundreds flink content.

Of all thefe ways, if each purtues his own, Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone: But thew me one who has it in his pow'r To act confiftent with himself an hour. Sir Job fail'd forth, the evening bright and still, No place on earth (he cried) like Greenwich

"hill!"

At am'rous Flavio is the ftocking thrown; That very night he longs to lie alone. The fool whofe wife clopes fome thrice a quarter, For matrimonial folace dies a martyr. Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch,. Transform themfelves fo ftrangely as the rich Well, but the poor-the poor have the fame itch; They change their weekly barber, weekly news, Prefer a new japanner to their shoes, Difcharge their garrets, move their beds, and run (They know not whither) in a chaife and one; They hire their fculler, and when once aboard Grow fick, and damn the climate like a lord.

You laugh, half beau, half floven, if I stand, My wig all powder, and all fnuff my band; You laugh, if coat and breeches strangely vary, White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary. But when no prelate's lawn with hair-fhirt lin'd Is half fo incoherent as my mind, When (each opinion with the next at ftrife, One ebb and flow of follies all my life) I plaat, root up; I build, and then confound; Turn round to fquare, and square again to round; You never change one mufcle of your face, You think this madnefs but a common cafe, Nor once to Chancery nor to Hale apply; Yet hang your lip, to see a feam awry ! Careless how ill I with myself agree, Kind to my drefs, my figure, not to me. Is this my guide, philofopher, and friend? This he who loves me, and who ought to mend ; Who ought to make me (what he can, or none) That man divine whom wifdom calls her own; Great without title, without fortune bleft; [preft; Rich even when plunder'd, honour'd while opLov'd without youth, and follow'd without pow'r, At home, tho' exil'd; free, tho' in the Tow'r: In short, that reas'ning, high, immortal thing; Juft less than Jove, and much above a king, Nay, half in heaven-except (what's mighty odd) A fit of vapours clouds this demi-god?

"NOT to admire, is all the art I know
"To make men happy, and to keep them fo."
(Plain truth, dear Murray! needs no flow'rs of
fpeech;

So take it in the very words of Creech).
This vault of air, this congregated ball,
Self-centred fun, and ftars that rife and fall,
There are, my friend! whofe philofophic eyes
Look thro' and truft the Ruler with his fkies;
To him commit the hour, the day, the year,
And view this dreadful all without a fear.

Admire we then what earth's low entrails
Arabian fhores, or Indian feas infold; [hold,
All the mad trade of fools and flaves for gold?
Or popularity, or stars and strings?

The mob's applauses, or the gifts of kings?
Say with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze,
And pay the great our homage of amaze?

If weak the pleasure that from these can spring,
The fear to want them is as weak a thing.
Whether we dread, or whether we defire,
In either cafe, believe me, we admire;
Whether we joy or grieve, the fame the curfe,
Surpris'd at better, or furpris'd at worse.
Thus, good or bad to one extreme betray
Th' unbalanc'd mind, and fnatch the man away;
For virtue's felf may too much zeal be had;
The worst of madmen is a faint run mad.
Go then, and if you can, admire the state
Of beaming diamonds, and reflected plate;
Procure a tafte to double the furprife,
And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes :
Be truck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye,
Our birth-day nobles' fplendid livery.
If not fo pleas'd, at council-board rejoice,
To fee their judgments hang upon thy voice;
From morn to night, at fenate, rolls, and hall,
Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all.
But wherefore all this labour, all this ftrife?
For fame, for riches, for a noble wife?
Shall one whom nature, learning, birth confpir'd
To form, not to admire but be admir'd,
Sigh while his Chloe, blind to wit and worth,
Weds the rich dulnefs of fome fon of earth?
Yet time ennobles or degrades each line;
It brighten'd Craggs's, and may darken thine:
And what is fame? The meaneft have their day;
The greatest can but blaze, and pass away.
Grac'd as thou art with all the pow'r of words,
So known, so honour'd, at the House of Lords:
Confpicuous fcene! another yet is nigh,
(More filent far) where kings and poets lie;
Where Murray (long enough his country's pride)
Shall be no more than Tully, or than Hyde!

Rack'd with fciatics, martyr'd with the stone, Will any mortal let himself alone? See Ward by batter'd beaus invited over, And defp'rate mifery lays hold on Dover. The cafe is easier in the mind's disease; There all men may be cur'd whene'er they pleafe.

Would

Would ye be bleft? defpife low joys, low gains;
Difdain whatever Cornbury difdains:
Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains.

}

But art thou one whom new opinions fway,
One who believes as Tindal leads the way;
Who virtue and a church alike difowns;
Thinks that but words, and this but brick and
ftones?

Fly then on all the wings of wild defire,
Admire whate'er the maddeft can admire.
Is wealth thy paffion? Hence! from pole to pole,
Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll,
For Indian fpices, for Peruvian gold,
Prevent the greedy, or outbid the bold:
Advance thy golden mountain to the skies;
On the broad bafe of fifty thoufand rife,
Add one round hundred, and (if that's not fair)
Add fifty more, and bring it to a fquare.
For, mark th' advantage, juft fo many score
Will gain a wife with half as many more;
Procure her beauty, make that beauty chafte;
And then fuch friends-as cannot fail to laft.
A man of wealth is dubb'd a man of worth;
Venus fhall give him form, and Anftis youth.
(Believe me, many a German prince is worfe,
Who, proud of pedigree, is poor of purse)
His wealth brave Timon glorioufly confounds;
Afk'd for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds;
Or, if three ladies like a luckless play,
Takes the whole houfe upon the poet's day.
Now, in fuch exigencies not to need,
Upon my word, you must be rich indeed;
A noble fuperfluity it craves,

Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves;
Something, which for your honour they may cheat,
And which it much becomes you to forget.
If wealth alone then make and keep us bleft,
Still, ftill be getting; never, never reft.

But if to pow'r and place your paffion lie, If in the pomp of life confifts the joy, Then hire a flave, or (if you will) a lord, To do the honours, and to give the word : Tell at your levee, as the crowds approach, To whom to nod, whom take into your coach, Whom honour with your hand: to make remarks Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks "This may be troublefome, is near the chair; "That makes three members, this can choofe a may'r."

Inftructed thus, you bow, embrace, protest,
Adopt him fon, or coufin at the leaft,
Then turn about, and laugh at your own jeft.
Or if your life be one continued treat,
If to live well means nothing but to eat,
Up, up! cries Gluttony, 'tis break of day;
Go, drive the deer, and drag the finny prey,
With hounds and horns go hunt an appetite-
So Ruffel did, but could not eat at night;
Call'd "happy dog" the beggar at his door;
And envied thirft and hunger to the poor.

}

Or fhall we ev'ry decency confound, Thro' taverns, ftews, and bagnios take our round; Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo K-I's lewd cargo, or Ty-y's crew,

From Latian Syrens, French Circæan feafts,
Return'd well travell'd, and transform'd to beafts;
Or for a titled punk, or foreign flame,
Renounce our country and degrade our name?
If, after all, we muft with Wilmot own, -
The cordial drop of life is love alone,
And Swift cry wifely, " Vive la Bagatelle !"
The man that loves and laughs muft fure do well.
Adieu-if this advice appear the worst,
E'en take the counfel which I gave you first;
Or, better precepts if you can impart,
Why do; I'll follow them with all my heart.

EPISTLE I. BOOK 11.

To Auguflus.

WHILE you, great patron of mankind! fuftain
The balanc'd world, and open all the main;
Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend,
At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend;
How fhall the mufe from fuch a monarch steal
An hour, and not defraud the public weal>

Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame,
And virtuous Alfred, a more facred name,
After a life of gen'rous toils endur'd,
The Gaul fubdued, or property fecur'd,
Ambition humbled, mighty cities ftorm'd,
Or laws eftablish'd, and the world reform'd;
Clos'd their long glories with a figh, to find
Th' unwilling gratitude of bafe mankind!
All human virtue, to its lateft breath,
Finds envy never conquer'd, but by death.
The great Alcides, ev'ry labour past,
Had ftill this monfter to fubdue at laft.
Sure fate of all, beneath whofe rifing ray
Each ftar of meaner merit fades away!
Oppreft we feel the beam directly beat,
Thofe funs of glory please not till they fet.

To thee the world its prefent homage pays,
The harveft early, but mature the praife:
Great friend of liberty! in kings a name
Above all Greek, above all Roman fame :
Whose word is truth, as facred and rever'd
As heaven's own oracles from altars heard.
Wonder of kings! like whom to mortal eyes
None e'er has rifen, and none e'er fhall life.
Juft in one inftance, be it yet confeft,
Your people, fir, are partial in the reft:
Foes to all living worth except your own,
And advocates for folly dead and gone.
Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old;
It is the ruft we value, not the gold.
Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn'd by rote,
And beaftly Skelton heads of houses quote:
One likes no language but the Faery Queen;
A Scot will fight for Chrift's Kirk o' the Green:
And each true Briton is to Ben fo civil,
He fwears the Mufes met him at the Devil.

Tho' juftly Greece her eldeft fons admires,
Why fhould not we be wifer than our fires ?
In ev'ry public virtue we excel;

We build, we paint, we fing, we dance as well;
And learned Athens to our art must stoop,
Could the behold us tumbling thro' a hoop.

To theatres and to rehearfals throng;
And all our grace at table is a fong!
I, who fo oft renounce the Mufes, lie;
Not -'s felf c'er tells more fibs than I :
When, fick of mufe, our follies we deplore,
And promife our beft friends to rhyme no more;
We wake next morning in a raging fit,
And call for pen and ink to fhew our wit.

He ferv'd a 'prenticeship who fets up fhop; Ward tried on puppies, and the poor, his drop; Even Radcliff's doctors travel firft to France, Nor dare to practife till they've learn'd to dance. Who builds a bridge that never drove a pile? (Should Ripley venture, all the world would finile.)

But thofe who cannot write, and thofe who can, All rhyme, and fcrawl, and fcribble to a man.

Yet, fir, reflect, the mifchief is not great; Thefe madmen never hurt the church or ftate; Sometimes the folly benefits mankind; And rarely av'rice taints the tuneful mind. Allow him but his plaything of a pen, He ne'er rebels, or plots. like other men: Flight of cashiers, or mobs, he 'll never mind; And knows no loifes while the mufe is kind. To cheat a friend, or ward, he leaves to Peter, The good man heaps up nothing but mere metre; Enjoys his garden and his book in quiet; And then-a perfect hermit in his dict.

Of little ufe the man you may fuppofe, Who fays in verfe what others fay in profe: Yet let ine fhew, a poct 's of fome weight, And (tho' no foldier) ufeful to the ftatc. What will a child learn fecuer than a fong? What better teach a foreigner the tongue, What's long or short, each accent where to place, And speak in public with fome fort of grace? I fearce can think him fuch a worthlefs thing, Unless he praife fome monfier of a king; Or virtue or religion turn to fport, To pleafe a lewd or unbelieving court. Unhappy Dryden! in all Charles's days, Rofcommon only boafts unspotted bays; And in our own (cxcufe from courtly stains) No whiter page than Addifon's remains. He from the tafte obfcene reclaims our youth, And fets the paffions on the fide of truth; Forms the foft Lofom with the gentleft art, And pours each human virtue in the heart. Let Ireland tell, how wit upheld her caufe, Her trade fupported, and fupplied her laws; And leave on Swift this grateful verfe engrav'd: "The rights a court attack'd, a poet fav'd." Behold the hand that wrought a nation's cure, Stretch'd to relieve the idiot and the poor, Proud vice to brand, or injur'd worth adorn, And stretch the ray to ages yet unborn. Not but there are who merit other palms; Hopkins and Sternhold glad the heart with pfalms: The boys and girls whom charity maintains, Implore your help in thefe pathetic ftrains: How could devotion touch the country pews, Unless the Gods beftow'd a proper mufe?

Verfe chcers their leifure, verfe affifts their work,
Verfe prays for peace, or fings down Pope and
Turk.

The filenc'd preacher yields to potent strain,
And feels that grace his pray'r befought in vain;
The bleffing thrills thro' all the lab'ring throng,
And heaven is won by violence of fong.

Our rural ancestors, with little bleft,
Patient of labour when the end was reft,
Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain
With feafts and off'rings, and a thankful strain:
The joy their wives, their fons, and fervants fhare,
Fafe of their toil, and partners of their care:
The laugh, the jeft, attendants on the bowl,
Smooth'd ev'ry brow, and open'd ev'ry foul:
With growing years the pleafing licenfe grew,
And taunts alternate innocently flew.
But times corrupt, and nature ill-inclin'd,
Produc'd the point that left the fting behind;
Till friend with friend, and families at ftrife,
Triumphant malice rang'd thro' private life.
Who felt the wrong, or fear'd it, took th' alarm,
Appeal'd to law, and juftice lent her arm.
At length, by wholesome dread of ftatutes bound,
The poets learn'd to please, and not to wound:
Moft warp'd to flattery's fide, but fome, more nice,
Preferv'd the freedom, and forbore the vice.
Hence fatire rofe, that juft the medium hit,
And Leals with morals what it hurts with wit.
We conquer'd France, but felt our captive's
charmǝ;

Her arts victorious triumph'd o'er our arms;
Britain to foft refinements lefs a foe,

Wit grew polite, and numbers learn'd to flow.
Waller was fmooth; but Dryden taught to join
The varying verfe, the full refounding line,
The long majeftic march, and energy divine;
Tho' ftill fome traces of our ruftic vein
And fplayfoot verfe remain'd, and will remain.
Late, very late, correctnefs grew our care,
When the tir'd notion breath'd from civil war.
Exact Racine, and Corneille's noble fire,
Shew'd us that France had fomething to admire:
Not but the tragic fpirit was our own,
And full in Shakespear, fair in Otway fhone:
But Otway fail'd to polifh or refine,
And fluent Shakefpcar fcarce effac'd a line.
Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot,
The laft and greatest art, the art to blot.
Some doubt if equal pains or equal fire
The humbler mufe of comedy require.
But, in known images of life, I guefs
The labour greater, as th' indulgence lefs.
Obferve how feldom even the best fucceed:
Tell me if Congreve's Fools are fools indeed?
What pert low dialogue has Farquhar writ!
How Van wants grace who never wanted wit!
The ftage how loosely does Aftrea tread,
Who faily puts all characters to bed!
And idle Cibber, how he breaks the laws,
To make poor Pinkey cat with vaft applaufe!
But fill their purfe, our pocts' work is done;
Alike to them, by Pathos or by Pun.

O you!

O you! whom vanity's light bark conveys On fame's mad voyage by the wind of praife, With what a fhifting gale your courfe you ply, For ever funk too low, or borne too high ! Who pants for glory finds but fhort repofe; A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows. Farewel the ftage! if, juft as thrives the play, The filly bard grows fat, or falls away.

There ftill remains, to mortify a wit, The many-headed monfter of the Pit; A fenfelefs, worthless, and unhonour'd crowd, Who, to disturb their betters mighty proud, Clatt'ring their sticks before ten lines are fpoke, Call for the Farce, the Bear, or the Black Joke. What dear delight to Britons farce affords! Ever the tafte of mobs, but now of lords (Tafte, that eternal wanderer! which flies From heads to ears, and now from cars to eyes)! The play ftands ftill! damn action and difcourfe, Back fly the fcenes, and enter foot and horse; Pageants on pageants, in long order drawn, Peers, heralds, bifhops, ermin, gold, and lawn; The champion too! and, to complete the jeft, Old Edward's armour beams on Cibber's breaft. With laughter fure Democritus had died, Had he beheld an audience gape fo wide. Let bear or elephant be e'er fo white, The people, fure the people, are the fight! Ah, lucklefs poet ftretch thy lungs and roar, That bear or elephant fhall heed thee more; While all its throats the gallery extends, And all the thunder of the pit afcends! Loud as the wolves, on Orcas' ftormy steep, Howl to the roarings of the northern deep, Such is the fhout, the long-applauding note, At Quin's high plume, or Oldfield's petticoat: Or when from Court a birth-day fuit bestow'd Sinks the loft A&tor in the tawdry load. Booth enters-hark! the univerfal peal! "But has he fpoken?" Not a fyllable. "What fhook the ftage, and made the people ftare? Cato's long wig,flower'd gown, and lacquer'dchair.

Yet left you think I rally more than teach, Or praife malignly arts I cannot reach, Let me for once prefume t' inftruct the times, To know the Poet from the man of rhymes: 'Tis he who gives my breaft a thoufand pains, Can make me feel each paffion that he feigns; Enrage, compofe, with more than magic art, With pity and with terror tear my heart; And fnatch me o'er the earth, or thro' the air, To Thebes, to Athens, when he will, and where. But not this part of the poetic ftate Alone deferves the favour of the Great: Think of thofe Authors, Sir, who would rely More on a Reader's fenfe, than Gazer's eye. Or who shall wander where the Mufes fing? Who climb their mountain, or who tafte their How fhall we fill a library with wit, [fpring When Merlin's Cave is half unfurnish'd yet? MLiege! why writers little claim your thought, Iguefs; and, with their leave, will tell the fault: We Poets are (upon a Poet's word)

Of all mankind the creatures moft abfurd:

The feafon when to come and when to go,
To fing or ceafe to fing, we never know;
And, if we will recite nine hours in ten,
You lofe your patience juft like other men.
Then too we hurt ourfelves, when, to defend
A fingle verfe, we quarrel with a friend;
Repeat unafk'd; lament, the wit's too fine
For vulgar eyes, and point out ev'ry line.
But most when, ftraining with too weak a wing,
We needs will write epiftles to the King;
And from the moment we oblige the town,
Expect a place, or penfion from the Crown;
Or dubb'd Hiftorians by exprefs command,
T' enroll your triumphis o'er the feas and land;
Be call'd to Court to plan fome work divine,
As once, for Louis, Boileau and Kacine.

Yet think, great Sir! (fo many virtues fhewn)
Ah think what Poet beft may make them known!
Or choose at least fome Minifter of Grace,
Fit to bestow the Laureat's weighty place.

Charles, to late times to be tranfinitted fair,
Affign'd his figure to Bernini's care;
And great Nallau to Kneller's hand decreed
To fix him graceful on the bounding Steed;
So well in paint and ftone they judg'd of merit:
But Kings in Wit may want difcerning Spirit.
The Hero William, and the Martyr Charles,
One knighted Blackmore, and one penfion'd
Quarles;

Which made old Ben and furly Denis fwear,
"No Lord's anointed, but a Ruffian Bear."
Not with fuch majefty, fuch bold relief,
The forms auguft of King or conq'ring Chief
E'er fwell'd on marble, as in verfe have fhin'd
(In polish'd verfe) the Manners and the Mind.
Oh! could I mount on the Mæonian wing,
Your Arms, your Actions, your Repofe to fing!
What feas you travers'd, and what fields you

fought!

Your country's peace how oft, how dearly bought!
How barb'rous rage fubfided at your word,
And nations wonder'd while they dropp'd the
fword!

How, when you nodded, o'er the land and deep Peace ftole her wing, and wrapp'd the world in fleep;

Till earth's extremes your mediation own,
And Afia's Tyrants tremble at your Throne.
But Verfe, alas! your Majefty difdains;
And I'm not us'd to Panegyric ftrains :
The Zeal of Fools offends at any time,
But most of all the Zeal of Fools in rhyme.
Befides, a fate attends on all I write;
That, when I aim at praife, they fay I bite.
A vile Encomium doubly ridicules:
There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
If true, a woful likenefs; and if lies,

Praife undeferv'd is fcandal in difguife:"
Well may he blush who gives it or receives;
And, when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
(Like Journals, Odes, and fuch forgotten things
As Eufden, Philips, Settle, writ of Kings)
Clothe fpice, line trunks, or flutt'ring in a row
Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

Ta

EPISTLE