'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 clothe 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 fhall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils?
In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his caufe;
His thankless country leaves him to her laws *.
The fenfe to value riches, with the art
T'enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursued,
Not funk by floth, nor rais'd by fervitude;
To balance fortune by a just expence,
Join with economy, magnificence;
With fplendour, 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 felf-love.
B. To worth or want well weigh'd be bounty
given,
And eafe or emulate the care of Heaven;
(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race)
Mend fortune's fault, and juftify her grace.
Wealth in the grofs is death, but life diffus'd;
As poifon heals, in juft proportion us'd:
In heaps, like Ambergris, a ftink it lies;
But well difpers'd, is incenfe to the skies.
P. Who ftarves by nobles, or with nobles cats? The wretch that trufts them, and the rogue that cheats.
Is there a lord, who knows a cheerful noon
Without a fiddler, flattirer, or buffoon?
Whofe table, wit, or modeft merit share,
Unelbow'd by a gamefter, pimp, or play'r?
Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part,
To eafe th' opprefs'd, and raise the finking heart?
Where'er he thines, oh fortune gild the fcene,
And angels guard him in the golden mean!
There English bounty yet awhile may stand,
And honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praifes why fhould lords engrofs?
Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing the Man of Rofs:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarfe applaufe refounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the fkies in uf:lefs columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,
But clear and artlefs, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whofe feats the weary traveller repofe?
Who taught that heaven-directed fpire to rife?
"The Man of Rofs," each lifping babe replics.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erfpread!
The Man of Rofs divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want fit fmiling at the gate;
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick the Man of Rofs relieves,
Prefcribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more.
Defpairing quacks with curfes fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now an useless race.
B. Thrice happy man enabled to purfue
What all fo with, but want the pow'r to do!
Oh fay, what fums that gen'rous hand supply?
What mines to fwell that boundlefs 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 blaze!
Ye little ftars! hide your diminish'd rays.
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 hiftory;
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 ftands,
Belies his features, nay extends his hands;
That live-long wig which Gorgon's felf might
Eternal buckle takes in Parin tone.
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 plafter, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-tied curtains, 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 foul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury and love;
* Where one lean herring furnish'd Cotta's board,
And nettles grew fit porridge for their lord;
Where mad good-nature, bounty mifapplied,
In lavish Curio blaz'd awhile and died;
There Providence once more fhall fhift the fcene,
And fhewing H-y, teach the golden mean.
The fecret rare, which affluence hardly join'd,
Which W-n loft, yes B-y ne'er could find;
Still mifs'd by Vice, and fcarce by Virtue hit,
By G's goodnefs, or by S-'s wit.
Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's fhore;
Who fings not him, oh may he fing no more!
The Register inrolls him with his poor,
Tells he was born, and died, and tells no more.
Just as he ought, he fill'd the fpace between;
Then Rols to rest unheeded and unfeen.
Or just as gay, at council, in a ring
Of mimic ftatefmen, and their merry king.
No wit to flatter, left of all his store!
No fool to laugh at, which he valued 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, [me."|
And well (he thought) advis'd him, "Live like
As well his grace replied, "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 purfe?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confefs'd;
Arife, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd?
Cutler faw tenants break, and houses fall,
For very want; he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a ftranger'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 even denied a cordial at his end,
Banifh'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend?
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
Yer 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 thefkies,
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 so forth;
His word would pafs for more than he was worth.
One folid difh his week-day meal affords,
And 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 devil was piqu'd fuch faintfhip 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 Cornith 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 yourfelf," was foon my lady's word;
And lo! two puddings fmoak'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 cas'd his thought,
"I'll now give fixpence 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 plied; Stocks and fubfcriptions pour on ev'ry fide, Till all the demon makes his full dulcent In one abundant thow'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 called a blefling, now was wit, And God's good providence, a lucky hit. Things change their titles, as our manners turn: His compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn : Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life) But duly fent his family and wife. There (fo the devil ordain'd) one Chriftmas-tide My good old lady catch'd a cold, and died.
A nymph of quality admires our knight; He marrics, 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: Firft, for his fon a gay commiflion 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 fenate 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 forlake 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.
EPISTLE IV.
To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington.
'TIS ftrange, the mifer thould his cares employ
To gain thote riches he can ne'er enjoy:
Is it lefs ftrange, the prodigal should wafte
His wealth, to purchafe what he ne'er can taste?
Nor for himself he fees, or hears, or cats;
Artifts must choofe his pictures, mufic, meats:
He buys for Topham, drawings and defigns;
For Pembroke ftatues, dirty gods, and coins;
Rare monkish manufcripts for Hearne alone;
And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane.
Think we all thefe are for himself? No more
Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.
For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
Only to thew, how many taftes he wanted.
What brought Sir Vifto's ill-got wealth to wafte?
Some dæmon whifper'd "Vifto! have a taste."
Heaven vifits with a tafte the wealthy fool,
And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.
See! fportive fate, to punith aukward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and fends him fuch a guide:
A ftanding fermon, at each year's expence,
That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence!
VARIATION.
That knotty point, my Lord! fhall I difcufs,
Or tell a tale ?-A tale-It follows thus :-
You show us Rome was glorious, not profufe, And pompous buildings once were things of ufe. Yet fhall (my Lord) your juft, your noble rules Fill half the land with imitating fools;
Who random drawings from your theets fhall take,
And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load fome vain church with old theatric ftate,
Turn arcs of triumph to a garden-gate;
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all
On fome patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall;
Then clap four flices of pilafter on't,
That, lac'd with bits of ruftic, makes a front:
Shall call the winds thro' long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;
Confcious they act a true Palladian pait,
And if they farve, they ftarve by rules of art.
Oft have you hinted to your brother peer,
A certain truth, which many buy too dear:
Something there is more needful than expence,
And fomething previous ev'n to tafte-'tis fenfe:
Good fenfe, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And, tho' no fcience, fairly worth the feven:
A light, which in yourself you must perceive;
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.
To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the column, or the arch to bend,
To fwell the terras, or to fink the grot;
In all, let nature never be forgot;
But treat the goddess like a modeft fair,
Nor over-drefs, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty ev'rywhere be spied,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points who pleatingly confounds,
Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.
Confult the genius of the place in all;
That tells the waters or to rife or fall;
Or helps th' ambitious hill the heavens to fcale,
Or fcoops in circling theatres the vale;
Calis in the country, catches op'ning glades,
ins willing woods, and varies ihades from fhades;
Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, defigns.
Still follow fenfe, of ev'ry art the foul, Parts antwering parts fhall flide into a whole; Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start evin from difficulty, ftrike from chance; Nature thall join you; time fhall make it grow A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow. Without it, proud Veifailles! thy glory falls; And Nero's terraces defert their walls: The vaft parteries a thousand hands thall make, Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake: Or cut wide views thro' mountains to the plain, You'll with your hill or shelter'd feat again. Ev'n in an ornament its place remark, Nor in an hermitage fet Dr. Clarke. Behold Villario's ten years toil complete; His Quincunx darkens, his Efpaliers meet;
The wood fupports the plain, the parts unite,
And ftrength of fhade contends with strength of
A waving glow the bloomy beds difplay, [light;
Blushing in bright diversities of day,
With filver-quiv'ring rills meander'd o'er-
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more;
Tir'd of the fcene parterres and fountains yield,
He finds at last he better likes a field.
Thro' his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus
Or fate delighted in the thick'ning fhade, [stray'd,
With annual joy the redd'ning fhoots to greet,
Or fee the ftretching branches long to meet!
His fon's fine tafte an op'ner vifta loves,
Foe to the dryads of his father's groves;
One boundlefs green, or flourish'd carpet views,
With all the mournful family of yews;
The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made,
Now fweep thofe alleys they were born to fhade.
At Timon's villa let us pafs a day, [away!"
Where all cry out, "What fums are thrown
So proud, fo grand; of that stupendous air,
Soft and agreeable come never there.
Greatnefs, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compafs this, his building is a town,
His pond an ocean, his parterre a down:
Who but muft laugh, the mafter when he sees,
A puny infect, fhiv'ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littlenefs around!
The whole, a labour'd quarry above ground.
Two Cupids fquirt before: a lake behind
Improves the keennefs of the northern wind.
His gardens next your admiration call;
On ev'ry fide you look, behold the wall!
No pleating intricacies intervene,
No artful wildnefs to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, cach alley has a brother,
And half the platform juft reflects the other.
The fuff ring eye inverted nature fees,
Trees cut to statues, ftatues thick as trees;
With here a fountain, never to be play'd;
And there a fummer-houfe, that knows no fhade;
Here Amphitrite fails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs;
Unwater'd fee the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dufty urn.
My lord advances with majeftic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen :
But foft-by regular approach-not yet-
Fift thro the length of yon hot terrace fweat;
And when up ten steep flopes you've dragg'd your
Juft at his ftudy-door he'll blef's your eyes. [thighs,
His ftudy with what authors is it ftor'd?
In books, not authors, curious is my lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round,
Thefe Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound.
Lo, fome are vellum, and the reft as good
For all his lordship knows, but they are wood.
• Muft bishops, lawyers, ftate fmen, have the skill To build, to plant, judge paintings, what you will ?
Then why not Kent as well our treaties draw; Bridgman explain the gospel, Gibbs the law?
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look;
Thefe fhelves admit not any modern book.
And now the chapel's filver bell you hear,
That fummons you to all the pride of pray'r:
Light quirks of mufic, broken and uneven,
Make the foul dance upon a jig to heaven.
On painted ceilings you devoutly ftare,
Where fprawl the faints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
Aud bring all Paradife before your eye.
To reft, the cushion and foft dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.
But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; A hundred footsteps fcrape the marble hall: The rich buffet well colour'd ferpents grace, And gaping Tritons fpew to wash your face. Is this a dinner? this a genial room? No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb; A folemn facrifice, perform'd in ftate; You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there. Between each act the trembling falvers ring, From foup to fweet-wine, and God blefs the king. In plenty ftarving, tantaliz'd in state, And complaifantly help'd to all I hate, Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave, Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; 1 curfe fuch lavish coft, and little skill, And wear no day was ever pafs'd fo ill:
Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed; Health to himfelf, and to his infants bread The lab'rer bears: what his hard heart denies, His charitable vanity fupplies.
Another age fhall fee the golden car Imbrown the flope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harveft bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres reaffume the land.
Who then thall grace, or who improve the foil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like 'Tis ufe alone that fanétifics expence, [Boyle. And fplendour borrows all her rays from fenfe. His father's acres who enjoys in peace, Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase: Whole cheerfui tenants blefs their yearly toil, Yet to their lord owe more than to the foil; Whofe ample lawns are not afham'd to feed The milky heifer and deferving fteed; Whofe rifing forefts, not for pride or fhow, But future buildings, future navies, grow: Let his plantations ftretch from down to down, First fhade a country, and then raife a town. You too proceed! make falling arts your care, Erect new wonders, and the old repair; Jones and Palladio to themfclves reftore, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before: Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind (Proud to accomplish what fuch hands defign'd) Bid harbours open, public ways extend, Bid temples, worthier of the god, afcend; Bid the broad arch the dang'rous flood contain, The mole projected break the roaring main; Back to his bounds their fubject fea command, And roll obedient rivers thro' the land;
Thefe honours, peace to happy Britain brings; These are imperial works, and worthy kings.
§ 16. Epifle to Mr. Addifon, occafioned by his Dialogues on Medals. POPE.
SEE
the wild waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own fad fepulchre appears,
With nodding arches, broken temples fpread!
The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead!
Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd,
Where, mix'd with flaves, the groaning martyr
toil'd:
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a diftant country of her floods:
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride furvey,
Statues of men fcarce lefs alive than they!
Some felt the filent ftroke of mould'ring age,
Some hoftile fury, fome religious rage.
Barbarian blindness, Chriftian zeal confpire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruins fav'd from flame,
Some buried marble half preferves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce difputes purfue,
And give to Titus old Vefpafian's due.
Ambition figh'd: fhe found it vain to trust The faithlefs column and the crumbling buft: Huge moles, whofe fhadow ftretch'd from thore to fhore,
Their ruins perifh'd, and their place no more!
Convinc'd, the now contracts her vast design,
And all her triumphs fhrink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conqueft keeps;
Beneath her palm here fad Judea weeps.
Now fcantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are feen the proftrate Nile or Rhine;
A fmall Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd,
And little cagles wave their wings in gold.
The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Thro' climes and ages bears each form and name;
In one fhort view fubjected to our eye,
Gods, emp'rors, heroes, fages, beauties, lie.
With fharpen'd fight pale antiquaries pore,
Th' infcription value, but the ruft adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The facred ruft of twice ten hundred years!
To gain Pefcennius one employs his schemes;
One grafps a Cecrops in ecftatic dreams.
Poor Valius, long with learned fpleen devour'd,
Can tafte no picafure fince his fhield was fcour'd:
And Curio, reftlefs by the fair one's fide,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine: Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories fhine; Her gods and godlike heroes rife to view, And all her faded garments bloom a-new. Nor bluth, thefe ftudies thy regard engage; | Thefe pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage: The verfe and fculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art.
Oh when fhall Britain, confcious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame ? In living medals fee her wars enroll'd, And vanquish'd realms fupply recording gold? | Here,
Here, rifing bold, the patriot's honeft face;
There, warriors frowning in hiftoric brass:
Then future ages with delight fhall fee
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
Or in fair feries laurell'd bards be shown,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison.
Then thall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
On the caft ore, another Pollio, fhine;
With afpect open fhall erect his head,
And round the orb in lafting notes be read,
Statefinan, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere,
"In action faithful, and in honour clear;
"Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end,
"Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend;
Enncbled by himfelf, by all approv'd,
And prais'd, unenvied, by the Muse he lov'd."
$17. Epifle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Prologue to the Satires.
To laugh, were want of goodnefs and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face:
I fit with fad civility, I read
With honeft anguifh, and an aching head;
And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,
This faving counfel, Keep your piece nine years.'
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-laue,
Lull'd by foft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term
ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends :
The piece, you think,is incorrect? why take it; I'm all fubmiffion; what you'd have it, make it." Three things another's modeft wishes bound, My Friendship, and a Prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon fends to me: You know his Grace: 'I want a Patron; ask him for a Place.' Pitholcon libell'd me- but here's a letter [ter. 'Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no betDare you refufe him? Curl invites to dine; ‡
P. SHUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigued I He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine."
Tye up the knocker; fay I'm sick, I'm dead.
The Dog-ftar rages! nay 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnaflus is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what_fhades
can hide?
[glide;
They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is facred, not the Church is free,
Ev'n Sunday fhines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of
Happy! to catch me juft at Dinner-time. [rhyme,
Is there a Parfon, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin Poetefs, a rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredcom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a Stanza when he should engross?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whole giddy fon neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damnn'd works the caufe:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife clope;
And curfes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope. [long,
Friend to my Life (which did not you pro-
The world had wanted many an idle fong)
What Drop or Noftrum can this plague remove? †
Or which muft end me, a Fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm fped;
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lye:
Blefs me! a packet.- 'Tis a ftranger fucs,
· A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse.”
If I dislike it, Furies, death and rage!'
If I approve, Commend it to the Stage.' [ends,
There (thank my ftars) my whole commiffion
The players and I are, luckily, no friends. §
Fir'd that the house reject him, 'Sdeath I'll
print it,
[Lintot.'
And fhame the fools-Your int'reft, Sir, with
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much:
Not, Sir, if you revife it, and retouch.'
All my demurs but double his attacks;
At laft he whispers, Do; and we go fnacks.'
Glad of a quarrel, ftraight I clap the door:
Sir, let me fee your works and you no more.
'Tis fung, when Midas' Ears began to fpring
(Midas, a facred perfon and a King),
His very Minifter who fpied them first
(Some fay his Queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst.
And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,
When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in my face?
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous
things,
I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;
Keep close to Ears, and thofe let affes prick,
'Tis nothing-P、 Nothing, if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret pafs,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs: [lie:)
The truth once told (and wherefore fhould we
The Queen of Midas flept, and fo may 1.
You think this cruel take it for a rule,
No creature fmarts fo little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,
Thou unconcern'd canft hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gali'ry in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftand ft unfhcok amidst a burfting world.
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