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Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick the
e MAN of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives. Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the Courts, and contest is no more.
Defpairing Quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile Attorneys, now an useless race.
B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do! Oh fay, what fums that gen'rous hand supply? What mines to fwell that boundless charity?
P. Of Debts and Taxes, Wife and Children clear, This man poffeft-five hundred pounds a year. Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your Ye little Stars! hide your diminish'd rays. [blaze!
B. And what? no monument, infcription, stone? His race, his form, his name almost unknown?
P. Who builds a Church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his Name: Go, fearch it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history; Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between; Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been. When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch, who living fav'd a candle's end; Should'ring God's altar a vile image stands, Belies his features, nay extends his hands; That live-long wig which Gorgon's felf might own, Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.
Behold what bleffings Wealth to life can lend!
And fee what comfort it affords our end.
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,
The floors of plaister, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-ty'd curtain's, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villers lies-alas! how chang'd from him,
That life of pleasure, and that Soul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury and love;
Or just as gay, at Council, in a ring
Of mimick'd Statefmen, and their merry King.
No Wit to flatter, left of all his store !
No Fool to laugh at, which he valu'd more.
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame; this lord of useless thousands ends.
His Grace's fate fage Cutler could forefee,
And well (he thought, advis'd him, " Live like me."
As well his Grace reply'd, "Like you, Sir John?
"That I can do, when all I have is gone."
Refolve me, Reafon, which of these is worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purse?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confefs'd,
Arife, and tell me, was thy death more bleis'd?
Cutler faw tenants break, and houfes fall,
For very want; he could not bui'd a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger's pow'r,
For very want; he could not pay a dow'r.
A few grey hairs his rev'rend temples crown'd,
'Twas very want that sold them for two pound.
What ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend?
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had!
Cutler and Brutus, dying both exclaim,
"Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name!"
Say, for fuch worth are other worlds prepar'd?
Or are they both, in this their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tir'd-I'll tell a tale-B. Agreed.
P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies ;
There dwelt a Citizen of fober fame,
A plain good man,
and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and fo forth;
His word would pass for more than he was worth.
One folid dish his week-day meal affords,
An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's:
Conftant at Church, and Change, his gains were fure,
His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.
The Dev'l was piqu'd fuch faintship to behold, And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old : But Satan now is wifer than of yore,
And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Rouz'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds fweep The furge, and plunge his Father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich fhipwrecks blefs the lucky fhore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: "Live like yourself," was foon my Lady's word; And lo! two puddings smoak'd upon the board. Afleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honeft factor ftole a Gem away!
He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the Diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some fcruple rofe, but thus he eas'd his thought, "I'll now give fix-pence where I gave a groat; "Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice"And am fo clear too of all other vice."
The Tempter faw his time; the work he ply'd;
Stocks and fubfcriptions pour on ev'ry fide,
'Till all the Daemon makes his full defcent
In one abundant fhow'r of Cent per Cent,
Sinks deep within him, and poffeffes whole,
Then Dubs Director, and fecures his foul.
Behold Sir Balaam now a man of spirit,
Afcribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he call'd a Bleffing, now was Wit,
And God's good Providence, a lucky Hit.
Things change their titles, as our manners turn:
His Compting-houfe employ'd the Sunday-morn:
Seldom at Church ('twas fuch a bufy life)
But duly fent his family and wife.
There (fo the Dev'l ordain'd) one Christmas-tide
My good old Lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd.
A Nymph of Quality admires our Knight;
He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite:
Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the Fair)
The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air:
First, for his Son a gay Commission buys,
Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies:
His Daughter flaunts a Viscount's tawdry wife:
She bears a Coronet and P-x for life.
In Britain's Senate he a feat obtains,
And one more Penfioner St. Stephen gains.
My Lady falls to play; fo bad her chance,
He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;
The Houfe impeach him; Coningsby harangues;
The Court forfake him, and Sir Balaam hangs :
Wife, fon, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown:
The Devil and the King divide the prize,
And fad Sir Balaam curfes God and dies.