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But mutual wants this happiness increase;
Al nature's diff'rence keeps ail nature's peace.
Condition, circumftance, is not the thing;
Blifs is the fame in fubject or in king.
In who obtain defence, or who defend,
In him who is, or him who finds a friend:
Heav'n breathes thro' ev'ry member of the whole
One common bleffing, as one common foul.
But fortune's gifts, if each alike poffeft,
And each were equal, muft not all conteft?
If then to all men happiness was meant,
God in externals could not place content.

Fortune her gifts may varioufly difpofe,
And thefe be happy call'd, unhappy thofe ;
But Heav'n's juft balance equal will appear,
While thofe are plac'd in hope, and these in fear:
Not present good or ill, the joy or curfe;
But future views of better, or of worse.

Oh fons of earth! attempt ve still to rife,
By mountains pil'd on mountains, to the skies?
Heav'n ftill with laughter the vain toil furveys,
And buries madmen in the heaps they raile.

Know, all the good that individuals find,
Or God and nature meant to mere mankind,
Reafon's whole pleasure, all the joys of fenfe,
Lie in three words, Health, Peace, and Competence;
But health confifts with temperance alone;
And peace, oh virtue! peace is all thy own.
The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain;
But thefe lefs tafte them as they worfe obtain.
Sav, in pursuit of profit or delight,

Who rifk the moft, that take wrong means or right?
Of vice or virtue, whether bleft or curft,
Which meets contempt, or which compaflion firft?
Count all th'advantage profp'rous vice attains,
'Tis but what virtue flies from and difdains:
And grant the bad what happiness they wou'd,
One they must want, which is, to pafs for good.
Oh blind to truth, and God's whole fcheme below,
Who fancy blifs to vice, to virtue woe!
Who fees and follows that great scheme the best,
Best knows the bleffing, and will most be bleft.
But fools, the good alone, unhappy call,
For ills or accidents that chance to all.
Sce Falkland dies, the virtuous and the juft!
See godlike Turenne proftrate on the dust!
See Sydney bleeds amid the martial strife!
Was this their virtue, or contempt of life?
Say, was it virtue, more tho' Heav'n ne'er gave,
Lamented Digby! funk thee to the grave?
Tell me, if virtue made the fon expire,
Why, full of days and honour, lives the fire?
Why drew Marfeilles' good bifhop purer breath,
When Nature ficken'd, and each gale was death?
Or why fo long (in life if long can be)
Lent Heav'n a parent to the poor and me?

What makes all physical or moral ill?
There deviates nature, and here wanders will.
God fends not ill; if rightly understood,
Or partial ill is univerfal good,

Or change admits, or nature lets it fall,
Short, and but rare, till man improv'd it all.
We juft as wifely. might of Heav'n complain,
That lighteous Abel was deftroy'd by Cain,

As that the virtuous fon is ftill at ease
When his lewd father gave the dire difeafe.
Think we, like fome weak prince,th'EternalCauíc
Prone for his fav'rites to reverse his laws.

Shall burning Etna, if a fage requires,
Forget to thunder, and recal her fires?
On air or fea new motions be impreft,
Oh blamelets Bethel to relieve thy breaft?
When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
Shall gravitation ceafe, if you go by?
Or fome old temple, nodding to its fall,
For Chartres' head referve the hanging wall?
But ftill this world (fo fitted for the knave)
Contents us not. A better fhall we have?
A kingdom of the juft then let it be :
But first confider how those just agree.
The good muft merit God's peculiar care;
But who, but God, can tell us who they are?
One thinks, on Calvin Heav'n's own Spirit fell;
Another, deems him inftrument of hell?
If Calvin feels Heav'n's bleffing, or its rod,
This cries, there is; and that, there is no God.
What thocks one part will edify the reft,
Nor with one fyftem can they all be bicft.
The very best wiil varioufly incline,
And what rewards your virtue, punish mine.
Whatever is, is right.-This world, 'tis true,
Was made for Cafar-but for Titus too;
And which more bleft? who chain'd his country,
Or he whofe virtue figh'd to lose a day? (lay,
"But fometimes virtue ftarves, while vice is fed."
What then? Is the reward of virtue bread?
That, vie may merit, 'tis the price of roil;
The knave deferves it when he tills the foil.
The knave deferves it when he tempts the main,
Where folly fights for kings, or dives for
The good man may be weak, be indolent;
Nor is his claim to plenty, but content.
But grant him riches, your demand is o'er?
"No-fhall the good want health, the good want
pow'r "

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Add health and pow'r, and ev'ry earthly thing,
Why bounded pow'r why private? why no

Nav, why external for internal giv'n?
Why is not man a god, and earth a heav'n?
Who afk and reafon thus, will scarce conceive
God gives enough, while he has more to give;
Immenfe the pow'r, immenfe were the demand;
Say, at what part of nature will they stand?

What nothing earthly gives, or can deftroy,
The foul's calm sunshine and the heart-felt joy
Is virtue's prize: A better would you fix?
Then give humility a coach and fix,
Juftice a conqu'ror's fword, or truth a gown,
Or public fpirit its great cure, a crown.
Weak, foolish man! will Heav'n reward us there
With the fame trash mad mortals with for here?
The boy and man an individual makes,
Yet figh'ft thou now for apples and for cakes?
Go, like the Indian, in another life
Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife;
As well as dream fuch trifles are affign'd,
As toys and cumpires for a godlike mind.


Rewards, that either would to virtue bring
No joy, or be destructive of the thing;
How oft by thefe at fixty are undone
The virtues of a faint at twenty-one !
To whom can riches give repute, or truft,
Content, or pleasure, but the good and juft?
Judges and fenates have been bought for gold;
Efteem and love were never to be fold.
Oh fool! to think God hates the worthy mind,
The lover and the love of human kind, [clear,
Whole life is healthful, and whofe confcience
Because he wants a thousand pounds a year!

Honour and fhame from no condition rife;
A&t well your part, there all the honour lies.
Fortune in men has fome fmall diff'rence made;
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade :
The cobler apron'd, and the parfon gown'd,
The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd.
"What differ more (you cry) than crown and

❝ cowl?"

I'll tell you, friend! a wife man and a fool.
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,
Or, cobler-like, the parfon will be drunk,
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow:
The reft is all but leather or prunella. [ftrings,
Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with
That thou may't be by kings, or whores of kings,
Boaft the pure blood of an illuftrious race,
In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece :
But by your fathers worth if your's you rate,
Count me thofe only who were good and great.
Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood
Has crept thro' fcoundrels ever fince the flood,
Go! and pretend your family is young;
Nor own your fathers have been fools fo long.
What can ennoble fots, or flaves, or cowards?
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards. [lies?
Look next on greatnefs; fay where greatnefs
"Where, but among the heroes and the wife?"
Heroes are much the fame, the point's agreed,
From Macedonia's madman to the Swede;
The whole ftrange purpose of their lives, to find
Or make an enemy of all mankind!

Not one looks backward, onward ftill he goes;
Yet ne'er looks forward further than his nofe.
No lefs alike the politic and wife;

All fly flow things, with circumfpective eyes:
Men in their loofe unguarded hours they take,
Not that themfelves are wife, but others weak.
But grant that thofe can conquer, thefe can cheat,
'Tis phrafe abfurd to call a villain great :
Who wickedly is wife, or madly brave,
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.
Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
Or failing, fmiles in exile or in chains,
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed
Like Socrates, that man is great indeed.
What's fame? A fancy'd life in others breath;
A thing beyond us, ev'n before our death.
Juft what you hear, you have, and what's unknown
The fame (my Lord) if Tully's, or your own.
All that we feel of it begins and ends
In the fmall circle of our foes or friends;
To all befide, as much an empty fhade
An Eugene living, as a Cæfar dead;

Alike or when, or where, they fhone or fhine,
Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine.

A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod;
An honeft man's the nobleft work of God.
Fame but from death a villain's naine can fave,
As juftice tears his body from the grave;
When what t'oblivion better were refign'd,
Is hung on high, to poifon half mankind.
All fame is foreign, but of true defert;
Plays round the head, but comes not to the

heart :

One felf-approving hour whole years outweighs
Of ftupid ftarers, and of loud huzzas;
And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels,
Than Cæfar with a fenate at his heels.

In parts fuperior what advantage lies?
Tell (for you can) what is it to be wife?
'Tis but to know how little can be known;
To fee all others faults, and feel our own:
Condemn'd in bus'nefs or in arts to drudge,
Without a fecond, or without a judge.
Truths would you teach, or fave a finking land?
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
Painful pre-eminence! yourself to view
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.

Bring then thefe bleflings to a ftrict account;
Make fair deductions; fee to what they mount:
How much of other each is fure to coft;
How each for other oft is wholly loft;
How inconfiftent greater goods with thefe;
How fometimes life is rifqu'd, and always eafe:
Think, and if still the things thy envy call,
Say, wouldst thou be the man to whom they fall?
To figh for ribbands, if thou art fo filly,
Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy!
Is yellow dirt the paffion of thy life?
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife!
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon fhin'd,
The wifeft, brighteft, meaneft of mankind:
Or ravish'd with the whiftling of a name,
See Cromwell, damn'd to everlasting fame!
If all, united, thy ambition call,

From ancient story learn to fcorn them all.
There, in the rich, the honour'd, fam'd, and great,
See the falfe fcale of happinefs complete!
In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay,
How happy thofe to ruin, these betray.
Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows,
From dirt and fea-weed as proud Venice rofe;
In each how guilt and greatnefs equal ran,
And all that rais'd the hero funk the man:
Now Europe's laurels on their brows behold,
But ftain'd with blood, or ill exchang'd for gold:
Then fee them broke with toils, or funk in cafe,
Or infamous for plunder'd provinces.
Oh wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame
E'er taught to thine, or fanctify'd from shame!
What greater blifs attends their close of life?
Some greedy minion, or imperious wife,
The trophy'd arches, ftory'd halls invade,
And haunt their flumbers in the pompous fhade.
Alas not dazzled with their noon-tide ray,
Compute the morn and ev'ning to the day;
The whole amount of that enormous fame,
A tale, that blends their glory with their shame!

Know then this truth-(enough for man to
"Virtue alone is happiness below." [know)
The only point where human blifs ftands still,
And taftes the good without the fall to ill;
Where only merit conftant pay receives,
Is bleft in what it takes, and what it gives;
The joy unequall'd, if its end it gain,
And if it lofe, attended with no pain:
Without fatiety, tho' e'er fo blefs'd,

And but more relish'd as the more diftrefs'd:
The broadeft mirth unfeeling folly wears,
Lefs pleafing far than virtue's very tears:
Good, from each object, from each place acquir'd,
For ever exercis'd, yet never tir'd;
Never elated while one man's opprefs'd;
Never dejected while another's blefs'd;
And where no wants, no wifhes can remain,
Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain.

See the fole blifs Heav'n could on all bestow! Which who but feels can tafte, but thinks can know:

Yet poor with fortune, and with learning blind,
The bad muft mifs, the good, untaught, will find;
Slave to no fect, who takes no private road,
But looks thro' nature, up to nature's God:
Purfues that chain which links tl'imminente design,
Joins heav'n and earth, and mortal and divine;
Secs that no being any blifs can know,
But touches fome above, and fome below;
Learns, from this union of the rifing whole,
The first, last purpose of the human foul';
And knows where faith, law, morals, all began,
All end, in love of God and love of man.
For him alone hope leads from goal to goal,
And opens ftill, and opens on his foul;
Till lengthen'd on to faith, and unconfin'd,"
It pours the blifs that fills up all the mind.
He fees why nature plants in man alone
Hope of known blits, and faith in blifs unknown:
(Nature, whofe dictates to no other kind
Are giv'n in vain, but what they feck they find)
Wife is her prefent; fhe connects in this
His greateft virtue with his greatest blifs;
At once his own bright profpect to be bleft,
And ftrongest motive to allift the reft.

Self-love thus pufh'd to focial, to divine,
Gives thee to make thy neighbour's bletting thine.
Is this too little for the boundless heart?
Extend it, let thy enemies have part:


Come then, my friend! my genius! come along;
Oh matter of the poet, and the fong!
And while the Mufe now ftoops, or now afcends,
To man's low paffions, or their glorious ends,
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wife,
To fall with dignity, with temper rife;
Form'd by thy converfe, happily to steer
From grave to gay, from lively to fevere;
Correct with fpirit, eloquent with cafe,
Intent to reafon, or polite to pleafe.
Oh! while along the ftream of time thy name
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame,
Say, fhall my little bark attendant fail,
Purfue the triumph, and partake the gale >
When statesmen, heroes, kings, in duft repofe,
Whofe fons shall blush their fathers were thy foes,
Shall then this verfe to future age pretend
Thou wert my guide, philofopher, and friend?
That, urg'd by thee, I turn'd the tuneful art,
From founds to things, from fancy to the heart;
For wit's falfe mirror held up nature's light;
Shew'd erring pride, whatever is, is right;
That reafon, paffion, anfwer one great aim;
That true felf-love and focial are the fame;
That virtue only makes our blifs below;
And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know.

§ 14 Moral Efays. In Four Epiftles. Port,
To Sir Richard Temple, L. Cobham.

YES, you defpife the man to books confin'd.
Who from his ftudy rails at human kind;
Tho' what he learns he speaks, and may advance
Some gen'ral maxims, or be right by chance.
The coxcomb bird, fo talkative and grave,
That from his cage cries Cuckold, Whore, and
Tho' many a paffenger he rightly call, [Knave,
You hold him no philofopher at all.

And yet the fate of all extremes is fuch,
Men may be read, as well as books, too much.
To obfervations which ourselves we make,
We grow more partial for th’obferver's fake;
To written Wifdom, as another's, lefs: [Gues
Maxims are drawn from Notions, there from
There's fomne peculiar in each leaf and grain,
Some unmark'd fibre, or fome varying vein;

Grant but as many forts of mind as mofs:

Grafp the whole worlds of reafon, life, and fenfe, Shall only Man be taken in the grofs?
In one clofe fyftem of benevolence:
Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree,
And height of blifs but height of charity.

God loves from whole to parts: but human foul
Muft rife from individual to the whole.
Self-love but ferves the virtuous mind to wake,
As the finall pebble ftirs the peaceful lake;
The centre mov'd, a circle ftrait fuccceds;
Another ftill, and fill another fpreads;
Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace;
His country next; and next all human race;
Wide and more wide, th'o'erflowings of the mind
Take ev'ry creature in, of ev'ry kind;
Earth fimiles around, with boundles bounty bleft,
And Heav'n beholds its image in his breaft.

That each from other differs, first confess:
Next, that he varies from himself no lefs;
Add Nature's, Custom's, Reafon's, Paflion's ftrife,
And all Opinion's colours caft on life.

Our depths who fathoms, or our fhallows finds,
Quick whirls, and shifting eddies of our minds?
On human actions reafon tho' you can,
It may be Reafon, but it is not Mán:
His Principle of action once explore,
That inftant 'tis his Principle no more.
Like following life, thro' creatures you diect,
You lose it in the moment you detect.
Yet more; the diff'rence is as great between
The optics fecing, as the objects fen.

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All Manners take a tincture from our own';
Or come difcolour'd thro' our Paffions shown.
Or Fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies,
Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.
Nor will Life's ftream for obfervation stay;
It hurries all too fast to mark their way:
In vain fedate reflections we would make,
When half our knowledge we muft fnatch, not
Oft in the Paffion's wild rotation toft, [take.
Our fpring of action to ourselves is loft:
Tir'd, not determin'd, to the laft we yield;
And what comes then is master of the field.
As the laft image of that troubled heap,
When Senfe fubfides, and Fancy fports in fleep
(Tho' past the recollection of the thought)
Becomes the stuff of which our dream is wrought,
Something as dim to our internal view,
Is thus, perhaps, the cause of most we do.
True, fome are open, and to all men known;
Others fo very close, they're hid from none:
(So darkness ftrikes the fenfe no lefs than light)
Thus gracious Chandos is belov'd at fight:
And ev'ry child hates Shylock, tho’his foul
Still fits at fquat, and peeps not from its hole.
At half mankind when gen'rous Manly raves,
All know 'tis virtue, for he thinks them knaves.
When univerfal homage Umbra pays,

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All fee 'tis vice, and itch of vulgar praife. When flatt'ry glares, all hate it in a queen, While one there is who charms us with his fpleen.

But thefe plain characters we rarely find:
Tho' ftrong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind:
Or puzzling contraries confound the whole;
Or affectations quite reverse the foul.
The Dull, flat Falfehood ferves for policy:
And in the Cunning, Truth itself's a lie.
Unthought-of frailties cheat us in the wife;
The fool lies hid in inconfiftencies.

See the fame man in vigour, in the gout;
Alone, in company; in place, or out;
Early at bus'nefs, and at hazard late;
Mad at a fox-chace, wife at a debate;
Drunk at a borough, civil at a ball;
Friendly at Hackney, faithlefs at Whitchall.

Catius is ever moral, ever grave,
Thinks, who endures a knave is next a knave,
Save juft at dinner-then prefers, no doubt,
A rogue with ven'fon to a faint without.

Who would not praife Patricio's high defert,
His hand unftain'd, his uncorrupted heart,
His comprehenfive head! all int'refts weigh'd,
All Europe fav'd, yet Britain not betray'd.
He thanks you not, his pride is in picquette,
Newmarket-fame, and judgment at a bett.
What made (fay Montagne, or more fage

Otho a warrior, Cromwell a buffoon?
A perjur'd prince a leaden faint revere,
A goliefs regent tremble at a star?
The throne a bigot keep, a genius quit,
Faithlefs thro' piety, and dup'd thro' wit?
Europe a woman, child, or dotard rule,
And juft her wifeft monarch made a fool?

Know, God and Nature only are the same:
In Man, the judgment fhoots at flying game;

A bird of paffage! gone as foon as found; Now in the moon perhaps, now under ground.

In vain the fage, with retrofpe&tive eye, Would from th'apparent What conclude the Why, Infer the motive from the deed, and thew, That what we chanc'd was what we meant to do. Behold! if Fortune or a miftrefs frowns, Some plunge in bufinefs, others fhave their crowns: To eafe the foul of one oppreffive weight, This quits an empire, that embroils a state; The fame aduft complexion has impell'd Charles to the convent, Philip to the field. Not always actions fhew the man; we find Who does a kindness is not therefore kind: Perhaps profperity becalm'd his breaft; Perhaps the wind juft shifted from the east: Not therefore humble he who feeks retreat, Pride guides his fteps, and bids him fhun the great. Who combats bravely is not therefore brave; He dreads a death-bed like the mcancft flave: Who reafons wifely is not therefore wife; His pride in reas'ning, not in acting, lies.

But grant that actions beft difcover man; Take the most strong, and fort them as you can. The few that glare, each character must mark; You balance not the many in the dark. What will you do with fuch as dilagree? Supprefs them, or mifcall them policy? Muft then at once (the character to fave) The plain rough hero turn a crafty knave? Alas! in truth the man but chang'd his mind;, Perhaps was fick, in love, or had not din'd. Afk why from Britain Cæfar would retreat? Cæfar himself might whifper he was beat. Why risk the world's great empire for a punk? Cæfar perhaps might anfwer, he was drunk. But, fage hiftorians! 'tis your talk to prove One action conduct; one, heroic love.

'Tis from high life high characters are drawn; A faint in crape is twice a faint in lawn; A judge is juft, a chanc'llor jufter ftill; A gownman learn'd; a bishop what you will; Wife, if a minifter; but, if a king, [thing! More wife, more learn'd, more juft, more ev'ry Court-Virtues bear, like geins, the highest rate, Born where Heav'n's influence scarce can peneIn life's low vale, the foil the virtues like, [trate: They pleafe as beauties, here as wonders strike. Tho' the fame fun, with all diffufive rays, Blush in the rofe, and in the di'mond blaze, We prize the ftronger effort of his pow'r, And juftly fet the gein above the flow'r. 'Tis education forms the common mind Juft as the twig is bent the tree's inclin'd Boaftful and rough, your firft fon is a 'fquire; The next a tradefman, meck, and much a liar; Tom ftruts a foldier, open, bold, and brave; Will fncaks a fcriv'ner, an exceeding knave: Is he a churchman then he's fond of pow'r; A quaker fly; a prefbyterian? four; A fimart free-thinker all things in an hour. Afk mens opinions: Scoto now fhall tell How trade increases, and the world goes well; Strike off his penfion, by the fetting fun, And Britain, if not Europe, is undone.



That gay free-thinker, a fine talker once,
What turns him now a frupid filent dunce ?
Some God, or Spirit, he has lately found;
Or chanc'd to meet a minifter, that frown'd.
Judge we by nature? Habit can efface,
Int'reft o'ercone, or policy take place :*
By actions thofe uncertainty divides:
By paffions thefe diffimulation hides :
Opinions they fill take a wider range:
Find, if you can, in what you cannot change.
Manners with fortunes, humours turn with

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Tenets with books, and principles with times.

Confiftent in our follies and our fins,
Here honeft Nature ends as the begins.

Old politicians chew on wifom paft,
And totter on in bus'nefs to the laft;
As weak, as earneft; and as gravely out,
As fober Lanefb'row dancing in the gout.

Behold a rev'rend fire, whom want of grace
Has made the father of a nameless race,
Shov'd from the wall perhaps, or rudely prefs'd
By his own fon, that paffes by unbless'd :
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
And envies ev'ry fparrow that he fees.

A falinon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate;
The doctor call'd, declares all help too late:
Mercy! cries Helluo, mercy on my foul!
"Is there no hope-Alas! then bring the jow!"
The frugal crone, whom praying priefts attend,
Still ftrives to fave the hallow'd taper's end;
Collects her breath as ebbing life retires,
For one puff more, and in that puff expires.

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Odious! in woollen! 'twould a faint provoke! (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke) No, let a charming chintz and Bruffels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and fhade my lifeless face: One would not fure be frightful when one


'And-Betty-give this cheek a little red.'


The Courtier, smooth, who forty years had
An humble fervant to all human kind,
Juft brought out this, when scarce his tongue

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could ftir,

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"If-where I'm going-I could ferve you, Sir?
I give and I devife (old Euclio faid,
And figh'd) my lands and tenements to Ned.'
Your money, Sir? My money, Sir! what ail
Why,—if I muft—(then wept) I give it Paul.'
The manor, Sir?- The manor hold,' he cry'd,
Not that, I cannot part with that'-and dy'd.
And you, brave Cobham, to the latest breath,
Shall feel your ruling paffion ftreng in death:
Such in thofe moments as in all the raft,
O fave my country, Heav'n!' fhall be your

Search then the ruling paffion: There, alone,
The wild are conftant, and the cunning known;"
The fool confiftent, and the falfe fincere;
Priefts, princes, women, no diffemblers here.
This clue once found, unravels all the reft,
The profpect clears, and Wharton stands confeft.
Wharton, the fcorn and wonder of our days,
Whofe ruling paffion was the luft of praife:
Born with whate'er could win it from the wife,
Women and fools muft like him, or he dies:
Tho' wond'ring fenates hung on all he spoke,
The Club must hail him, Master of the joke.
Shall parts fo various aim at nothing new?
He'll fhine a Tully and a Wilmot too.
Then turns repentant, and his God adores
With the fame fpirit that he drinks and whores;
Enough if all around him but adinire,
And now the Punk applaud, and now the Friar.
Thus with each gift of nature and of art,
And wanting nothing but an honeft heart;
Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt;
And most contemptible to fhun contempt;
His pathon ftill to covet gen'ral praise,
His life, to forfeit it a thoufand ways;
A conftant bounty which no friend has made;
An angel tongue, which no man can perfuade;
A fool, with more of wit than half mankind,
Too rafh for thought, for action too refin'd:
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves;
A rebel to the very king he loves;
He dies, fad outcaft of each church and state,
And, harder ftill! flagitious, yet not great.
Afk you why Wharton broke thro' ev'ry rule?
'Twas all for fear the knaves fhould call him
Nature well known, no prodigies remain, [fool!
Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.
Yet in this fearch the wifeft may mistake,
If fecond qualities for firft they take.
When Catiline by rapine fwell'd his store;
When Cæfar made a noble dame a whore;
In this the luft, in that the avarice
Were means, not ends; ambition was the vice;
That very Cæfar, born in Scipio's days,
Had aim'd, like him, by chastity, at praife.
Lucullus, when frugality could charm,
Had roafted turnips in the Sabin farm.
In vain th'obferver eyes the builder's toil;
But quite mistakes the fcaffold for the pile.

In this one paffion man can strength enjoy,
As fits give vigour juft when they deftroy.
Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
Yet tames not this; it fticks to our laft fand,

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Of the Characters of Women.
NOTHING so true as what you once let fall,
"Moft women have no characters at all."
Matter too foft a lafting mark to bear,
And beft diftinguifh'd by black, brown, or fair.
How many pictures of one nymph we view,
All how unlike each other, all how true!
Arcadia's Countefs, here, in ermin'd pride,
Is there, Paftora, by a fountain fide.
Here Fannia, leering on her own good man;
And there, a naked Leda with a fwan.
Let then the fair one beautifully cry,
In Magdalene's loofe hair and lifted eye,
Or dreft in fmiles of fweet Cecilia fhine,
With fimp'ring angels, palms, and harps divine;
Whether the charmer finner it or faint it,
If folly grow romantic, I muft paint it.


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