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Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end,
Nothing to make philosophy thy friend?
To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires,
And ease thy heart of all that it admires?
Here Wisdom calls, ‘Seek virtue first, be bold!
As gold to silver, virtue is to gold.'


There, London's voice, 'Get money, money
And then let Virtue follow, if she will.'
This, this the saving doctrine preach'd to all,
From low Saint James's up to high Saint Paul;
From him whose quills stand quiver'd at his ear,
To him who notches sticks at Westminster.

Barnard in spirit, sense, and truth, abounds;
'Pray then what wants he?' Fourscore thousand
A pension, or such harness for a slave [pounds;
As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.
Barnard! thou art a cit, with all thy worth;
But Bug and D*1, their honours! and so forth.
Yet every child another song will sing,
'Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king.'
True conscious honour is to feel no sin;
He's arm'd without that 's innocent within:
Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass;
Compared to this a minister 's an ass.

And say, to which shall our applause belong, This new court jargon, or the good old song? The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poitiers? Who counsels best? who whispers, 'Be but great, With praise or infamy leave that to Fate; Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace; If not, by any means get wealth and place.' For what? to have a box where eunuchs sing, And foremost in the circle eye a king;

Or he, who bids thee face with steady view Proud Fortune, and look shallow Greatness through,

And, while he bids thee, sets the' example too?
If such a doctrine in Saint James's air, [stare;
Should chance to make the well-dress'd rabble
If honest S**z take scandal at a spark
That less admires the palace than the park;
Faith, I shall give the answer Reynard gave:
'I cannot like, dread sir! your royal cave;
Because I see, by all the tracks about,
Full many a beast goes in, but none come out.'
Adieu to virtue, if you're once a slave:
Send her to court, you send her to her grave.
Well, if a king's a lion, at the least

The people are a many-headed beast:
Can they direct what measures to pursue
Who know themselves so little what to do?
Alike in nothing but one lust of gold,

Just half the land would buy, and half be sold:
Their country's wealth our mightier misers drain,
Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main ;
The rest, some farm the poor-box, some the
Some keep assemblies, and would keep the stews;
Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn;
Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn;
While with the silent growth of ten per cent.
In dirt and darkness hundreds stink content.

Of all these ways, if each pursues his own,
Satire! be kind, and let the wretch alone;
But show me one, who has it in his power
To act consistent with himself an hour.
Sir Job sail'd forth, the evening bright and still,
No place on earth (he cried) like Greenwich-hill?'

Up starts a palace; lo, the obedient base
Slopes at its foot, the woods its sides embrace,
The silver Thames reflects its marble face.
Now let some whimsey, or that devil 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 amorous Flavio is the stocking thrown?—
That very night he longs to lie alone.

The fool whose wife elopes some thrice a quarter,
For matrimonial solace dies a martyr.

Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch,

Transform themselves so strangely as the rich?— Well, but the poor-the poor have the same 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 sculler, and when once aboard Grow sick, and damn the climate—like a lord.

You laugh, half beau, half sloven, if I stand,
My wig all powder, and all snuff 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 lined,
Is half so incoherent as my mind,

When (each opinion with the next at strife,
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 case;

Nor once to Chancery 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, philosopher, 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 bless'd;
Rich e'en when plunder'd, honour'd while op-

Loved without youth, and follow'd without power,
At home though exiled; free though in the Tower;
In short, that reasoning, high, immortal thing,
Just less than Jove, and much above a king;
Nay, half in Heaven—except (what's mighty odd
A fit of vapours clouds this demi-god.



SAY, St. John, who alone peruse
With candid eye, the mimic Muse,
What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws!
Is then a greater work in hand,

Than all the tomes of Haines's band?

This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise bestowed on him in a letter to Mr. Richardson, where Mr. Pope says,

The sons shall blush their fathers were his foes; being so contradictory, probably occasioned the former to be suppressed.

'Or shoots he folly as it flies? Or catches manners as they rise?' Or, urged by unquench'd native heat, Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat? Where (emulous of Chartres' fame) E'en Chartres' self is scarce a name. To you (the' all-envied gift of Heaven) The' indulgent gods, unask'd, have given A form complete in every part, And, to enjoy that gift, the art. What could a tender mother's care Wish better to her favourite heir, Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours, A stock of health, and golden showers, And graceful fluency of speech, Precepts before unknown to teach? Amidst thy various ebbs of fear, And gleaming hope, and black despair; Yet let thy friend this truth impart ; A truth I tell with bleeding heart, (In justice for your labours past) That every day shall be your last; That every hour you life renew Is to your injured country due.

In spite of fears, of mercy spite, My genius still must rail, and write. Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat, And mingle with the grumbling great: There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find The rhyming bubbler of mankind; There (objects of our mutual hate) We'll ridicule both church and state.

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