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For what? to have a box, where Eunuchs fing,
And foremost in the Circle eye a King.

Or he, who bids thee face with steady view
Proud Fortune, and look fhallow Greatness thro':
And, while he bids thee, fets th' Example too?
If fuch a Doctrine, in St. James's air,

Shou'd chance to make the well-dreft Rabble stare; In honest S―z, take scandal at a Spark, That lefs admires the Palace than the Park: Faith I fhall give the answer Reynard gave: "I cannot like, dread Sir, your Royal Cave: "Because I see, by all the tracts about,

"Full many a Beast goes in, but none comes out." Adieu to Virtue, if you're once a Slave:

Send her to Court, you fend her to her grave.
Well, if the King's a Lion, at the least

The People are a many-headed Beaft:
Can they direct what measures to pursue,
Who know themselves fo little what to do?
Alike in nothing but one Luft of Gold,
Just half the land would buy, and half be fold:
Their Country's wealth our mightier Mifers drain,
Or cross, to plunder Provinces, the Main;
The reft, fome farm the Poor-box, fome the Pews;
Some keep Affemblies, and would keep the Stews;
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 darknefs, hundreds ftink content.

Of all these ways, if each pursues his own,
Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone:

But fhew me one who has it in his pow'r

To act confiftent with himself an hour.

Sir Job fail'd forth, the ev'ning bright and still,
"No place on earth (he cry'd) like Greenwich hill!"
Up ftarts a Palace, lo th' obedient base

Slopes at its foot, the woods its fides embrace,
The filver Thames reflects its marble face.
Now let fome whimsey, or that Dev'l within
Which guides all those who know not what they


But give the Knight (or give his Lady) spleen; "Away, away! take all your scaffolds down, "For Snug's the word: My dear! we'll live in Town.” At am'rous Flavio is the stocking thrown?

That very night he longs to ly alone.

The Fool, whofe Wife elopes 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,
Discharge their Garrets, move their beds, and run
(They know not, whither) in a Chaise and one;
They hire their fculler, and when once aboard,
Grow fisk, and damn the climate-like a Lord.

You laugh, half Beau, half Sloven if I ftand,
My wig all powder, and all puff 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-shirt lin'd,
Is half fo incoherent as my Mind,

(When each opinion with the next at strise,
One ebb and flow of Follies all my life)

I plant, root up; I build, and then confound;
Turn round to square, and square again to round;
You never change one muscle of your face,
You think this madness but a common cafe,
Nor once to Chanc'ry, nor to Hale apply;
Yet hang your lip, to see a Seam awry !
Careless how ill I with myself agree,
Kind to my dress, 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 Wisdom calls her own;
Great without title, without Fortune blefs'd;
Rich even when plunder'd, honour'd while oppress'd;
Lov'd without youth, and follow'd without power;
At home tho' exil'd; free, tho' in the Tower:
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 cloud this Demi-God?









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JOT to admire, is all the Art I know,

To make men happy, and to keep them fo." (Plain Truth, dear MURRAY, needs no flowers of speech, So take it in the very words of Creech.)

This Vault of Air, this congregated Ball, Self-center'd Sun, and Stars that rise and fall, There are, my friend whofe philofophic eyes Look thro', and trust the Ruler with his skies, 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 hold, Arabian hores, or Indian feas infold;

All the mad trade of Fools and Slaves for Gold?


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