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"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 pursu'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 eafe, or emulate, the care of Heaven;
(Whose measure full o'er flows on human race)
Mend Fortune's fault, and juftify her grace.
Wealth in the grofs is death, but life ditus'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 fkies.

P. Who ftarves by Nobles, or with Nobles eats? The wretch that trusts 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 Gamester, Pimp, or Player? Who copies Your's, or OXFORD's better part, To ease th' oppress'd, and raise the finking heart? Where-e'er he fhines, 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 praises why fhould Lords engross? Rife, honest Muse! and fing the MAN of Ross: Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause refounds. 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 tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and art lefs, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the swain.
Whose Caufe-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'erfpread!
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread;
He feeds yon Alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where Age and Want fit fimiling at the gate;

Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick ? the 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 curfes 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, inscription, 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.

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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 ftrove 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 Statesmen, 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, Reason, 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 fold 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 sweep The furge, and plunge his Father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

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