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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 rais'd that Monft'rous fum ?
Alas! they fear a man will cost a plùm.

Wife Peter fees the World's refpect for Gold,
And therefore hopes this Nation may be fold:
Glorious ambition! Peter, fwell thy store,
And be what Rome's great Didius was before
The Crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
To just 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' Afturian Mines.

Much injur'd Elunt; why bears he Britain's hate? A wizard told him in thefe words our fate: "At length Corruption, like a general flood,

(So long by watchful Minifters withstood) Shall deluge all; And Avarice creeping on, "Spread like a low-born mift, and blot the fun; "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 lucres' fordid charms, [arms!" "And France reveng'd of ANNE's and EDWARD'S 'Twas no Court badge, great Scrivener, fir'd thy brain, Nor lordly Luxury, nor City Gain:

No, twas thy righteous end, afham'd to fee
Senates degenerate, Patriots difagree,
And nobly wishing Party-rage to ceafe,
To buy both fides, and give thy Country peace.
"All this is madnefs," 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."
Lefs mad the wildest whimsey we can frame,
Than even that paffion, 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 passion sends "And different men directs to different ends, "Extremes in Nature equal good produce, "Extremes in Man concur to general ufe." Ask we what makes one keep, and one bestow? That POWER who bids the ocean ebb and flow, Bids feed-time, harveft, 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 season fly. Who fees pale Mammon pine amidst his store, Sees but a backward steward for the Poor; This year a Refervoir, to keep and spare; The next a Fountain, spouting thro' his Heir, In lavish streams to quench a Country's thirst, And men and dogs fhall 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 ufe of barb'rous fpits forgot)
His kitchen vy'd in coolnefs 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 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, Sience without, and fails within the wall;

No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor found,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with fighs the fmoaklefs towers furvey,
And turn th' unwilling fteeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curfe the fav'd candle, and unop'ning door;
While the gaunt mastiff growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.

Not fo his Son, he mark'd this oversight,
And then miftook 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,

1 Fill the capacious 'Squire, and deep Divine? Yet no mean motives this profufion draws, His oxen perish in his country's caufe;

"Tis GEORGE and LIBERTY that crowns the cup,
And Zeal for that great House which eats him up.
The woods recede around the naked feat,
The Sylvans groan-no matter-for the Fleet:
Next goes his Wool-to cloath 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 shall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, that pays her Patriots with her spoils?
In vain at Court the Bankrupt pleads his cause,
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 purfu'd,
Not funk by floth, not rais'd by fervitude;
To balance fortune by a juft expence,

Join with Oeconomy, Magnificence;

With Splendor, 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 Self-love.

B. To worth or want well-weigh'd, be bounty given, And cafe, or emulate, the care of Heaven; (Whofe measure full o'erflows on human race) Mend Fortune's fault, and juftify her grace. Wealth in the grofs is death, but life difus'd; As poifon heals, in juft proportion us'd; In heaps, like Ambergrife, a ftink it lies, But well difpers'd, is incenfe to the kies.

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, Flatterer, or Buffoon? Whofe table, Wit, or modeft Merit fhare, Un-elbowed by Gamefter, Pimp, or Player? Who copies Your's, or OXFORD's better part, To eafe th' opprefs'd, and raise the finking heart? Where-e'er he shines, 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 praifes why fhould Lords engrofs?
Rife, honest Mufe! and fing the MAN of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,

But clear and art lefs, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain.
Whose Cause-way parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whose feats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rife?
"The MAN of Ross," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the Market-place with poor o'erspread!
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread;
He feeds yon Alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where Age and Want fit fmiling at the gate;

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