Page images
PDF
EPUB

"Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door; "A hundred oxen at your levee roar."

Poor Avarice one torment more would find;
Nor could Profufion fquander all in kind.
Aftride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet;
And Worldly crying coals from street to street,
Whom with a wig fo wild, and mien fo maz'd,
Pity mistakes for fome poor tradefman craz'd.
Had Colepepper's whole wealth been hops and hogs,
Could he himself have fent it to the dogs?

His Grace will game: to White's a Bull be led,
With spurning heels and with a butting head;
To White's be carry'd, as to ancient games,
Fair Courfers, Vafes, and alluring Dames.
Shall then Uxorio, if the stakes he sweep,
Bear home fix Whores, and make his Lady weep?
Or foft Adonis, fo perfum'd and fine,

Drive to St. James's a whole herd of fwine?
Oh filthy check on all industrious skill,

To spoil the nation's laft great trade, Quadrille!
Since then, my Lord, on fuch a World we fall,
What fay you? B. Say? Why take it, Gold and all.
P. What Riches give us let us then enquire;

Meat, Fire, and Cloaths. B. What more? P. Meat,
Cloaths and Fire,

Is this too little? would you more than live?
Alas! 'tis more than Turner finds they give.
Alas! 'tis more than (all his visions paft)
Unhappy Wharton, waking, found at last!
What can they give? to dying Hopkins, Heirs;
To Chartres, Vigour; Japhet, Nofe and Ears?

Can they, in gems bid Pallid Hippia glow,
In Fulvia's Buckle cafe the throbs below;
Or heal, old Narfes thy obfcener ail,

With all the embroidery plaister'd at thy tail?
They might (were Harpax not too wife to spend)
Give Harpax' felf the bleffing of a Friend;
Or find fome Doctor that would fave the life
Of wretched Shylock, spite of Shylock's Wife:
But thousands die, without or this or that,
Die, and endow a College, or a Cat.

To fome, indeed, Heaven grants the happier fate, T'enrich a Baftard, or a Son they hate.

Perhaps you think the Poor might have their part, Bond damns the poor, and hates them from his heart: The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule

That every man in want is knave or fool:

GOD cannot love (fays Blunt, with tearlefs eyes) "The wretch he starves"--and piously denies: But the good Bishop with a meeker air, Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care. Yet to be just to these poor men of pelf, Each does but hate his neighbour as himself: Damn'd to the Mines, an equal fate betides and the Slave that hides. mere Charity fhould own,

The Slave that digs it,

B. Who fuffer thus,

Muft act on motives powerful, tho' unknown.

P. Some war, fome plague, or famine they forefee, Some Revelation hid from you and me.

Why Shylock wants a meal, the caufe is found,
He thinks a Loaf will rife to fifty pound.

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 she and Sappho rais'd that Monft'rous fum?
Alas! they fear a man will coft a plum.

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 Blunt; 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 cease,
To buy both fides, and give thy Country peace.
"All this is madnefs," cries a fober fage:
But who, my friend, has reafon in his rage?
"The ruling Paffion, be it what it will,
"The ruling Paffion conquers Reafon ftill."
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 paffion fends "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, harvest, 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 feason 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 ftreams 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,
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 towers furvey,
And turn th' unwilling fteeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the foreft 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 overfight,
And then miftook reverse 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;

« PreviousContinue »