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"At length, Corruption, like a gen❜ral flood,
(So long by watchful ministers withstood)
Shall deluge all'; and Av'rice creeping on,
Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the Sun ;
Statesman 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!" 'Twas no court-badge, great Scriv'ner, fir'd thy brain, Nor lordly Luxury, nor City Gain:

No, 'twas thy righteous end, afham'd to fee
Senates degen'rate, Patriots difagree,

And nobly wishing Party-rage to ceafe,
To buy both fides, and give thy country peace.
"All this is madness," cries a fober fage:
But who, my friend, has reafon in his rage?

3

of the famous scheme in 1720. H was alfo one of thofe who fuffered most feverely by the bill of pains and penalties on the faid directors. He was a diffenter of a most religious deportment, and profeffed to be a great believer. Whether he did really credit the prophecy here mentioned, is not certain; but it was conftantly in this very ftyle he declaimed against the corruption and luxury of the age, the partiality of parliaments, and the mifery of partyfpirit. He was particularly eloquent against avarice in great and noble perfons, of which he had, indeed, lived to fee many miferable examples. He died in the year 1732.

"The

"The ruling paffion, be it what it will,
The ruling paffion conquers Reason still."
Lefs mad, the wildeft whimsey we can frame,
Than ev'n that passion, if it has no Aim;
For tho' fuch motives Folly you may call,

The Folly's greater to have none at all.

Hear, then, the truth: ""Tis Heav'n each paffion

fends,

And diff'rent men directs to diff'rent ends. Extremes in Nature equal good produce, Extremes in Man concur to gen'ral ufe." Ask we what makes one keep, and one bestow? That Pow'r who bids the ocean ebb and flow; Bids feed-time, harveft, equal courfe 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 season, fly. Who fees pale Mammon pine amidst his store, Sees but a backward steward for the Poor ; This year a Reservoir, to keep and spare ; The next, a Fountain, fpouting thro' his Heir, In lavish streams to quench a Country's thirst, And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst. 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 vy'd, in coolness, with his grot? His court with nettles, moats with creffes ftor'd, With foups unbought, and fallads, blefs'd his board

If Cotta liv'd on pulse, 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 fmoaklefs tow'rs furvey,
And turn th' unwilling steeds 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 Son; he mark'd this overfight,
And then mistook reverfe of wrong for right.
(For what to fhun will no great knowledge need,
But what to follow, is a task indeed.)
Yet fure, of qualities deferving praise,

More go to ruin Fortunes, than to raise.

What flaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'Squire, and deep Divine!
Yet no mean motives this profufion draws,
His oxen perish in his country's cause;

'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

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 Senfe to value Riches, with the Art
T'enjoy them, and the Virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursu❜d,
Not funk by floth, not rais'd by fervitude;
To balance Fortune by a juft expence,
Join with Economy, Magnificence;
With Splendor, Charity; with Plenty, Health;
Oh teach us, Bathurst! yet unspoil'd by wealth!
That fécret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love.
B. ToWorth or Want well weigh'd, beBounty giv'n,
And eafe, or emulate, the care of Heav'n;
(Whose 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 just proportion us'd:
In heaps, like Ambergrife, a ftink it lies,
But well difpers'd, is incenfe to the Skies.

P. Who ftarves by Nobles, or with Nobles eats ? The Wretch that trufts them, and the Rogue that

cheats.

Is there a Lord, who knows a chearful noon
Without a Fiddler, Flatt'rer, or Buffoon?
Whofe table, Wit, or modeft Merit share,
Un-elbow'd by a Gamefter, Pimp, or Play'r

Who copies Your's, or * Oxford's better part,
To eafe th' opprefs'd, and raife the finking heart?
Where-e'er he fhines, oh Fortune, gild the scene,
And Angels guard him in the golden Mean!
There, English bounty yet a-while may stand,
And Honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praises why fhould Lord- engrofs?
Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing† The Man of Rofs:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause refounds.

Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bad the waters flow?
Not to the skies in ufelefs columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft;
But, clear and artless, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the sick, and folace to the swain.
Whofe Caufe-way parts the vale with fhady rows
Whofe Seats the weary Traveller repose ?
Who taught that Heav'n-directed spire to rife ?›
"The Man of Rofs," each lifping babe replies.

* Edward Harley earl of Oxford, the fon of Robert, created earl of Oxford, and earl Mortimer, by queen Anne.

†The perfon here celebrated, who, with a small eftate, actually performed all these good works, and whofe true name was almoft loft (partly by the title of The Man of Rofs, given him by way of eminence, and partly by being buried without fo much as an infcription) was called Mr. John Kyrle. He died in the year 1724, aged 90, and lies interred in the chancel of the church of Rofs in Herefordfhire. Behold

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