On morning wings how active fprings the mind That leaves the load of yesterday behind! How easy ev'ry labour it pursues ! How coming to the Poct ev'ry Mufe! Not but we may exceed fome holy time, Or tir'd in fearch of Truth, or fearch of Rhyme; Ill health fome juft indulgence may engage, And more, the ficknefs of long life, Old Age; For fainting Age what cordial drop remains, If our intemp'rate Youth the veffel drains? Our fathers prais'd rank Ven'fon. You fuppofe, Perhaps, young men our fathers had no nofe. Not fo: a Buck was then a week's repaft, And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last; More pleas'd to keep it till their friends could

come,

Than cat the sweetest by themselves at home.
Why had not I in thofe good times my birth,
Ere coxcomb pyes or coxcombs were on earth?
Unworthy he, the voice of Fame to hear,
That fweeteft mufic to an honeft ear
(For 'faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong;
The world's good word is better than a fong).
Who has not learn'd, fresh sturgeon and ham-pye
Are no rewards for want and infamy >
When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf,
Curs'd by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself;
To friends, to fortune, to mankind a fhame,
Think how pofterity will treat thy name;
And buy a rope, that future times may tell
Thou haft at least beftow'd one penny well.
"Right," cries his Lordship, "for a rogue in need
"To have a tafte, is infolence indeed :
"In me 'tis noble, fuits my birth and state,
"My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great."
Then, like the Sun, let Bounty spread her ray,
And thine that fuperfluity away.

Oh Impudence of wealth! with all thy store,
How dar ft thou let one worthy man be poor?
Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall?
Make Quays, build Bridges, or repair Whitehall:
Or to thy Country let that heap be lent,
As M-o's was, but not at five per cent.
Who thinks that fortune cannot change her
mind,

Prepares a dreadful jeft for all mankind.
And who ftands fafeft? tell me, is it he
That spreads and fwells in puff'd profperity;
Or, bleft with little, whofe preventing care
In peace provides fit arms against a war?
Thus Bethel fpoke, who always fpeaks his
thought,

And always thinks the very thing he ought:
His equal mind I copy what I can,
And as I love, would imitate, the man.
In South-fea days not happier, when furmis'd
The lord of thoufands, than if now excis'd;
In foreft planted by a father's hand,
Than in five acres now of rented land.
Content with little, I can piddle here
On broccoli and mutton round the year;
But ancient friends (tho' poor, or out of play),
That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.
'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards;
But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords.

To Hounslow heath I point, and Banfted-down; Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my

own:

From yon old walnut-tree a fhow'r shall fall;
And grapes, long ling ring on my only wall,
And figs from standard and efpalier join;
The devil is in you, if you cannot dine: [place);
Then cheerful healths (your mistress fhall have
And, what's more rare, a poet shall say grace,
Fortune not much of humbling me can boast:
Tho' double tax'd, how little have I loft!
My life's amufements have been just the fame
Before and after ftanding armies came.
My lands are fold, my father's houfe is gone :
I'll hire another's; is not that my own, [gate
And yours, my friends? thro' whofe free op'ning
None comes too early, none departs too late;
For I, who hold fage Homer's rule the beft,
Welcome the coming, fpecd the going guest.

66

Pray heaven it laft! (cries Swift) as you go on; "I with to God this houfe had been your own. "Pity! to build, without a fon or wife;

Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life." Well, if the ufe be mine, can it concern one, Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon? What's property? dear Swift! you fee it alter From you to me, from me to Peter Walter; Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's fhare; Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir; Or in pure equity (the cafe not clear) The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year: At beft, it falls to fome ungracious fon, Who cries, "My father's damn'd,andall's myown.” Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford, Become the portion of a booby lord; And Hemfley, once proud Buckingham's delight, Slides to a feriv'ner, or a city knight. Let lands and houfes have what lords they will, Let us be fix'd, and our own mafters ftill.

The First Epifle of the Firft Book of Horace. EPISTLE I. To Lord Bolingbroke. ST. JOHN, whofe love indulg'd my labours paft, Matures my prefent, and fhall bound my laft! Why will you break the Sabbath of my days? Now fick alike of envy and of praife. Public too long, ah let me hide my age! Sce, modeft Cibber now has left the Stage; Our Gen'rals now, retir'd to their eftates, Hang their old Trophies o'er the Garden gates; In Life's cool evening fatiate of applaufe, Nor fond of bleeding even in Brunfwick's caufe. A voice there is, that whifpers in my ear, ('TisRcafon'svoice, which fometimes one can hear) "Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Mufe take "And never gallop Pegafus to death; [breath, "Left ftiff and ftately, void of fire or force, "You limp, like Blackmore, on a Lord Mayor's horfe."

Farewel then, Verfe, and Love, and ev'ry toy, The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy; What right, what truc, what fit we juftly call, Let this be all my care-for this is All:

At am'rous Flavio is the stocking thrown ; That very night he longs to lie alone. The fool whole wife elopes fome thrice a quarter, For matrimonial folace dies a martyr. Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch, Transform themselves fo ftrangely as the rich? Well,but the poor--the poor have the fame itch; They change their weekly barber, weekly news, Prefer a new japanner to their fhoes, Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run (They know not whither) in a chaife and one; They hire their fculler, and when once aboard Grow fick, and damn the climate like a lord.

You laugh, half beau, half floven, if I stand,
My wig all powder, and all fnuff my band;
You laugh, if coat and breeches ftrangely vary,
White gloves, and linen worthy lady Mary.
But when no prelate's lawn with hair-shirt lin'd
Is half fo incoherent as my mind,
When (each opinion with the next at ftrife,
One ebb and flow of follies all my life)
I plant, root up; I build, and then confound;
Turn round to fquare, and fquare again to round;
You never change one mufcle of your face,
You think this madnefs but a common cafe,
Nor once to Chancery nor to Hale apply;
Yet hang your lip, to fee a feam awry!
Careless how ill Ì with myself agree,
Kind to my drefs, 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 wifdom calls her own;
Great without title, without fortune blefs'd;
Rich even when plunder'd, honour'd while op-
prefs'd;

Lov'd without youth, and follow'd without pow'r;
At home, tho exil'd; free, tho' in the tow'r :
In fhort, that reas'ning, high, immortal thing;
Juft lefs than Jove, and much above a king,
Nay, half in heaven-except (what's mighty odd)
A fit of vapours clouds this demi-god?

EPISTLE VI.

To Mr. Murray.

"NOT to admire, is all the art I know
“To make men happy, and to keep them fo."
(Plain truth, dear Murray! needs no flow'rs of
So take it in the very words of Creech). [fpeech;
This vault of air, this congregated ball,
Self-center'd fun, and stars that rife and fall,
There are, my friend! whofe philofophic eyes
Look thro' and truft the Ruler with his fkies;
To him commit the hour, the day, the year,
And view this dreadful all without a fear.
Admire we then what earth's low entrailshold,
Arabian fhores, or Indian feas infold;
All the mad trade of fools and flaves for gold?
Or popularity, or stars and strings?

}

The mob's applauses, or the gifts of kings?
Say with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze,
And pay the great our hommage of amaze?

If weak the pleafure that from thefc can fpring, The fear to want them is as weak a thing.

Whether we dread, or whether we defire,
In either cafe, believe me, we admire;
Whether we joy or grieve, the fame the curfe,
Surpris'd at better, or furpris'd at worse.
Thus, good or bad to one extreme betray
Th' unbalanc'd mind, and fnatch the man away;
For virtue's felf may too much zeal be had;
The worst of madmen is a faint run mad.
Go then, and if you can, admire the state
Of beaming diamonds, and reflected plate;
Procure a tafte to double the furprise,
And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes :
Be ftruck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye,
Our birthday nobles fplendid livery.

If not fo pleas'd, at council-board rejoice,
To fee their judgments hang upon thy voice;
From morn to night, at senate, rolls, and hall,
Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all.
But wherefore all this labour, all this strife?
For fame, for riches, for a noble wife?
Shall one whom nature, learning, birth confpir'd
To form, not to admire but be admir'd,
Sigh while his Chloe, blind to wit and worth,
Weds the rich dulnefs of fome fon of earth?
Yet time ennobles or degrades cach line;
It brighten'd Craggs's, and may darken thine:
And what is fame? The meancit have their day;
The greateft can but blaze, and pass away.
Grac'd as thou art with all the pow'r of words,
So known, fo honour'd, at the Houfe of Lords:
Confpicuous fcene! another yet is nigh,
(More filent far) where kings and poets lie;
Where Murray (long enough his country's pride)
Shall be no more than Tully, or than Hyde!

Rack'd with sciatics, martyr'd with the stone,
Will any mortal let himself alone?
See Ward by batter'd beaus invited over,
And defp'rate mifery lays hold on Dover.
The cafe is cafier in the mind's disease;
There all men may be cur'd whene'er they pleafe.
Would ye be bleft? defpife low joys, low gains;
Difdain whatever Cornbury difdains:
Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains.

But art thou one whom new opinions fway, One who believes as Tindal leads the way; Who virtue and a church alike difowns; Thinks that butwords,andthis but brick and ftones? Fly then on all the wings of wild defire, Admire whate'er the maddeft can admire. Is wealth thy paffion? Hence! from pole to pole, Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll, For Indian fpices, for Peruvian gold, Prevent the greedy, or outbid the bold: Advance thy golden mountain to the skies; On the broad bafe of fifty thousand rife, Add one round hundred, and (if that's not fair) Add fifty more, and bring it to a fquare. For, mark th' advantage, juft fo many fcore Will gain a wife with half as many more; Procure her beauty, make that beauty chafte; And then fuch friends-as cannot fail to laft. A man of wealth is dubb'd a man of worth; Venus fhall give him form, and Anftis both. (Believe me, many a German prince is worse, Who, proud of pedigree, is poor of purst)

His wealth brave Timon gloriously confounds;
Afk'd for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds;
Or, if three ladies like a lucklefs play,
Takes the whole house upon the poet's day.
Now, in fuch exigencies not to need,
Upon my word, you must be rich indeed;
A noble fuperfluity it craves,

Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves;
Something, which for your honour they may cheat,
And which it much becomes you to forget.
If wealth alone then make and keep us bleft,
Still, fill be getting; never, never reft.

But if to pow'r and place your paffion lie, If in the pomp of life confifts the joy, Then hire a flave, or (if you will) a lord, To do the honours, and to give the word: Tell at your levce, as the crowds approach, To whom to nod, whom take into your coach, Whom honour with your hand: to make remarks Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks: "This may be troublefome, is near the chair; "That makes three members, this can choose a "may'r."

Inftructed thus, you bow, embrace, proteft,
Adopt him fon, or coufin at the least,
Then turn about, and laugh at your own jeft.

Or if your life be one continued treat,
If to live well means nothing but to eat,
Up, up! cries Gluttony, 'tis break of day;
Go, drive the deer, and drag the finny prey;
With hounds and horns go hunt an appetite-
So Ruffel did, but could not eat at night;
Call'd "happy dog" the beggar at his door;
And envied thirft and hunger to the poor.

}

Or fhall we ev'ry decency confound, Thro' taverns, ftews, and bagnios take our round; Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo K-l's lewd cargo, or Ty-y's crew, From Latian Syrens, French Circean feafts, Return'd well travell'd, and transform'd to beafts; Or for a titled punk, or foreign flame, Renounce our country, and degrade our name?

If, after all, we muft with Wilmot own,
The cordial drop of life is love alone,
And Swift cry wifely, "Vive la Bagatelle!"
The man that loves and laughs, muft fure do well.
Adieu-if this advice appear the worst,
E'en take the counfel which I gave you firft;
Or, better precepts if you can impart,
Why do; I'll follow them with all my heart.

EPISTLE I. BOOK II.
To Auguftus.

WHILE you, great patron of mankind! sustain
The balanc'd world, and open all the main ;
Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend,
At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend;
How fhall the mufe from fuch a monarch fteal
An hour, and not defraud the public weal?

Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame, And virtuous Alfred, a more facred name, After a life of gen'rous toils endur'd, The Gaul fubdued, or property fecur'd, Ambition humbled, mighty cities form'd, Or laws establish'd, and the world reform'd;

Clos'd their long glories with a figh, to find
Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
All human virtue, to its lateft breath,
Finds envy never conquer'd, but by death.
The great Alcides, ev'ry labour past,
Had ftill this monster to fubdue at last.
Sure fate of all, bencath whofe rifing ray
Each star of meaner merit fades away!
Opprets'd we feel the beam directly beat,
Thofe funs of glory pleafe not till they fet.

To thee, the world its prefent homage pays,.
The harveft early, but mature the praife:
Great friend of liberty! in kings a name
Above all Greek, above all Roman fame:
Whose word is truth, as facred and rever'd
As heaven's own oracles from altars heard.
Wonder of kings! like whom to mortal eyes
None e'er has rifen, and none e'er shall rife.

Juft in one inftance, be it yet confeft, Your people, fir, are partial in the reft: Foes to all living worth except your own, And advocates for folly dead and gone. Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old It is the ruft we value, not the gold." Chaucer's worft ribaldry is learn'd by rote, And beaftly Skelton heads of houses quote: One likes no language but the Faery Queen; A Scot will fight for Chrift's Kirk o'the Green: And each true Briton is to Ben fo civil, He fwears the Mufes met him at the Devil.

Tho juftly Greece her eldest fons admires, Why should not we be wiser than our fires? In ev'ry public virtue we excel;

We build, we paint, we fing, we dance as well;
And learned Athens to our art must stoop,
Could the behold us tumbling thro' a hoop.

If time improve our wits as well as wine,
Say at what age a poct grows divine?
Shall we, or thall we not, account him so,
Who died, perhaps, an hundred years ago?
End all difpute, and fix the year precife
When British bards begin t'immortalize?

"Who lafts a century can have no flaw; "I hold that wit a claffic, good in law."

Suppofe he wants a year, will you compound? And thall we deem him ancient, right, and found? Or damn to all eternity at once,

At ninety-nine, a modern and a dunce?

"We shall not quarrel for a year or two; "By courtesy of England, he may do." Then, by the rule that made the horse-tail bare,

I pluck out year by year, as hair by hair,
And melt down ancients like a heap of fnow,
While you, to meafure merits, look in Stowe ;
And eftimating authors by the year,
Beftow a garland only on a bier.

Shakefpear (whom you and ev'ry playhouse bill
Style the divine, the matchlefs, what you will)
For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight,
And grow immortal in his own defpite.
Ben, old and poor, as little feem'd to heed
The life to come, in ev'ry poet's creed,
Who now reads Cowley if he pleases yet,
His moral pleafes, not his pointed wit;

Forgot