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Good fenfe, which only is the gift of Heav'n,
And tho' no Science, fairly worth the fev❜n:
A light, which in yourself you must perceive;
Jones and Le Notre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend,
To fwell the Terrace, or to fink the Grot;
In all, let Nature never be forgot,
But treat the Goddess like a modest fair,
Nor over dress, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty ev'ry where be spy'd,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,
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 heav'ns to scale,
Or fcoops in circling theatres the Vale;

Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies fhades from shades;
Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending Lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.
Still follow Sense, of ev'ry art the foul,
Parts anfw'ring parts shall slide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from Difficulty, strike from Chence;
Nature fhall join you; Time fhall make it grow
A work to wonder at-perhaps a Srow.

Without it, proud Verfailles! 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 thro' mountains to the Plain,
You'll with your hill or fhelter'd feat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,

Nor in an Hermitage fet Dr. Clarke.

Behold Villario's ten years toil complete; His Quincunx darkens, his Efpaliers meet; The Wood fupports the Plain, the parts unite, And ftrength of fhade contends with strength of Light; A waving Glow the bloomy beds display,

Blufhing in bright diverfities of day,

With filver quiv'ring rills meander'd o'er

Enjoy them, you! Villario, can no more;

Tir'd of the fcene Parterres and Fountains yield,
He finds at last he better likes a Field.

Thro' his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus ftray'd,
Or fate delighted in the thick'ning fhade,
With annual joy the red'ning fhoots to greet,
Or fee the ftretching branches long to meet!
His Son's fine taste an op'ner Vista loves,
Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves;
One boundless Green, or flourish'd carpet views,
With all the mournful family of Yews;
The thriving plants, ignoble broomstics made,
Now fweep thofe Alleys they were born to fhade.
At Timon's Villa let us pafs a day,

Where all cry out. What fums are thrown away!"
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 Brobdignag before your thought.
To compass this, his building is a Town,
His Pond an Ocean, his Parterre a down:
Who but must laugh, the Mafter when he fees,
A puny infect, fhiv'ring 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 keeness of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On ev'ry fide you look, behold the Wall!
No pleafing Intricacies intervene,

No artful wildnefs to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The fuff'ring 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-houfe, that knows no fhade;
Here Amphitrite fails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There Gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs;
Unwater'd fee the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dufty Urn.
My Lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be feen:
But foft-by regular approach-not yet-

First thro' the length of yon hot Terrace fweat;
And when up ten steep flops you've drag'd your thighs,
Juft at his Study-door he'll blefs your eyes.

His Study with what Authors is it flor'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 Pray'r:
Light quirks of Mufic, broken and uneven,
Make the foul dance upon a Jig to Heav'n.
On painted Ceilings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradife 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 fpew 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 courfe, you'd fwear
Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there.
Between each Act the trembling falvers ring,
From foup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King,

In plenty ftarving, tantaliz'd in state,
And complaifantly help'd to all I hate,
Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curfe fuch lavish cost, and little skill,

And swear no day was ever past so ill.

Yet hence the poor are cloath'd, the hungry fed: Health to himself, and to his infants bread The Lab'rer bears: what his hard Heart denies, His charitable Vanity supplies.

Another age shall fee the golden Ear

Imbrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre,
Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-affume the land.

Who then shall grace, or who improve the foil?
Who plants like BATHURST, or who builds like BOYLE.
'Tis ufe alone that fanctifies Expence,

And Splendor borrows all her rays from Senfe.

His Father's Acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he encrease:
Whofe chearful Tenants blefs their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the foil;
Whofe ample lawns are not afham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deferving steed;
Whofe rifing forests, not for pride or show,
But future Building, future Navies, grow:
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First fhade a Country, and then raise a Town.

You too proceed! make falling Arts your care, Erect new wonders, and the old repair;

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