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Come then, the colours and the ground pre- | Critiqu'd your wine, and analyz'd your meat:

Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air; [pare;
Chufe a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it
Catch, ere the change, the Cynthia of this minute.
Rufa, whofe eye, quick glancing o'er the Park,
Attracts each light gay meteor of a fpark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa ftudying Locke,
As Sappho's di'monds with her dirty finock;
Or Sappho at her toilet's greafy task,
With Sappho fragrant at an ev'ning mask:
So morning infects, that in muck begun,
Shine, buzz, and flyblow in the fetting fun.
How foft is Silia! fearful to offend;
The frail one's advocate, the weak one's friend!
To her, Califta prov'd her conduct nice;
And good Simplicius afks of her advice.
Sudden, the storms! fhe raves! You tip the wink,
But fpare your cenfure; Silia does not drink.
All eyes may
fee from what the change arofe;
All eyes may fee-a pimple on her nose.
Papillia, wedded to her am'rous fpark,
Sighs for the fhades- How charming is a park!'
A park is purchas'd, but the fair he fees
All bath'd in tears- Oh odious, odious trees!
Ladies, like variegated tulips, fhow,
'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe;
Fine by defect, and delicately weak,
Their happy fpots their nice admirer take.
'Twas thus Calypfo once each heart alarm'd,
Aw'd without virtue, without beauty charm'd;
Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes;
Lefs wit than minic, more a wit than wife;
Strange graces ftill, and ftranger flights fhe had,
Was juft not ugly, and was just not mad;
Yet ne'er fo fure our paffion to create,
As when the touch'd the brink of all we hate.
Narciffa's nature, tolerably mild,

To make a wash would hardly stew a child!
Has ev'n been prov'd to grant a lover's pray'r,
And paid a tradefman once, to make him ftare!
Gave alms at Easter, in a Chriftian trim,
And made a widow happy for a whim!
Why then declare good-nature is her fcorn,
When 'tis by that alone she can be borne ?
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to pleasure, yet a flave to fame:

Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres:
Now confcience chills her, and now paffion burns;
And atheism and religion take their turns;
A very heathen in the carnal part,
Yet ftill a fad good Chriftian at her heart.
See Sin in ftate majestically drunk;
Proud as a peerefs, prouder as a punk;
Chafte to her husband, frank to all befide,
A teeming miftrefs, but a barren bride.
What then? Let blood and body bear the fault,
Her head's untouch'd, that noble feat of thought;
Such this day's doctrine-in another fit
She fins with poets, thro' pure love of wit.
What has not fir'd her bofom, or her brain?
Cæfar and Tall-boy, Charles and Charlema'ne.
As Helluo, låte dictator of the feast,
The nofe of Haut-gout, and the tip of taste,

Yet on plain pudding deign'd at home to eat,
So Philomedé, let'ring all mankind
On the foft paffion and the taste refin'd,
Th'addrefs, the delicacy ftoops at once,
And makes her hearty meal upon a dunce.
Flavia's a wit, has too much sense to pray;
To toaft our wants and wifhes is her way;
Nor afks of God, but of her stars, to give
The mighty bleffing, "while we live, to live."
Then all for death, that opiate of the foul!
Lucretia's dagger, Rofamonda's bowl.
Say, what can caufe fuch impotence of mind?
A fpark too fickle, or a spouse too kind.
Wife wretch! with pleasures too refin'd to please;
With too much spirit to be e'er at ease;
With too much quickness ever to be taught;
With too much thinking to have common
thought;

You purchate Pain with all that Joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Turn then from wirs; and look on Simo's
Mate;

No afs fo meck, no afs so obftinate.
Or her that owns her faults, but never mends,
Because she's honest, and the best of friends.
Or her, whofe life the church and scandal share,
For ever in a paffion, or a pray'r.

Or her, who laughs at hell, but (like her Grace)
Cries, "Ah how charming, if there's no fuch
Or who in fweet viciffitude appears [place!"
Of mirth and opium, ratifie and tears,
The daily anodyne, and nightly draught,
To kill thofe foes to fair ones, time and thought;
Woman and fool are too hard things to hit;
For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.

But what are thefe to great Atoffa's mind?
Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!
Who, with herself, or others, from her birth
Finds all her life one warfare upon earth:
Shines in expofing knaves, and painting fools,
Yet is whate'er fhe hates and ridicules.
No thought advances, but her eddy brain
Whisks it about, and down it goes again.
Full fixty years the world has been her trade;
The wifeft fool much time has ever made.
From lovelefs youth to unrespected age,
No paffion gratify'd, except her rage,
So much the fury ftill out-ran the wit,
The pleafure mifs'd her, and the scandal hit.
Who breaks with her provokes revenge from
But he's a bolder man who dares be well. [Hell;
Her ev'ry turn with violence purfu'd,
No more a storm her hate than gratitude :
To that each paffion turns, or foon or late;
Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate:
Superiors! death! and equals! what a curse!
But an inferior not dependant! worse.
Offend her, and she knows not to forgive;
Oblige her, and fhe'll hate you while you live:
But die, and fhe'll adore you-Then the buft
And temple rife-then fall again to duft.
Laft night her lord was all that's good and great;
A knave this morning, and his Will a cheat.

Strange I

Strange! by the means defeated of the ends,
By fpirit robb'd of Pow'r, by warmth of friends,
By wealth of follow'rs! without one diftrefs
Sick of herself, thro' very selfishness !
Atoffa, curs'd with ev'ry granted pray'r,
Childlefs with all her children, wants an heir.
To heirs unknown defcends th'unguarded ftore,
Or wanders, Heav'n directed, to the poor.

Pictures, like thefe, dear Madam, to defign,
Afk no firm hand, and no unerring line ;
Some wand'ring touches, fome reflected light,
Some flying ftroke alone can hit 'em right:
For how fhould equal colours do the knack?
Cameleons who can paint in white and black?

Yet Chloe fure was form'd without a spot.'
Nature in her then err'd not, but forgot.
With ev'ry pleafing, ev'ry prudent part,
Say, what can Chloe want? She wants a heart.
She peaks, behaves, and acts juft as the ought;
But never, never, reach'd one gen'rous thought.
Virtue the finds too painful an endeavour;
Content to dwell in decencies for ever.
So very reafonable, fo unmov'd,
As never yet to love, or to be lov'd.
She, while her lover pants upon her breast,
Can mark the figures on an Indian cheft;
And when the fees her friend in deep despair,
Obferves how much a chintz exceeds mohair!
Forbid it Heav'n, a favour or a debt
She e'er thould cancel-but the may forget.
Safe is your fecret still in Chloe's ear;
But none of Chloe's fhall you ever hear.
Of all her dears fhe never flander'd one,
But cares not if a thousand are undone.
Would Chice know if you're alive or dead?
She bids her footman put it in her head.
Chlocis prudent-Would you too be wife?
Then never break your heart when Chloe dies.
One certain porti ait may (I grant) be feca,
Which Heav'n has varnish`d out, and made a
Queen:

The fame for ever! and defcrib'd by all
With truth and goodnefs, as with crown and ball.
Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will,
And thew their zcal, and hide their want of skill.
'Tis well-but artifis! who can paint or write,
To draw the naked is your true delight.
That robe of quality fo ftruts and fwells,
None fee what parts of nature it conceals:
Th'exacteft traits of body or of mind,
We owe to inodels of an humble kind.
If Queenberry to trip there's no compelling,
'Tis from a handmaid we must take an Helen.
From Peer or Bihop 'tis no caly thing
To draw the man who loves his God, or King:
Alas! I copy (or my draught would fail)
From honeft Mah'met, or plain Parton Hale.
But grant, in public, Men fometimes are thown,
A Woman's feen in private life alone:
Our bolder talents in full light difplay'd;
Your virtues open faireft in the fhade.
Bred to diguile, in public 'tis you hide;
There,none diftinguish 'twixt your shame or pride,
Weakness or delicacy; all fo nice,
That each may feem a virtue or a vice.

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In Men we various ruling paffions find;
In Women, two almoft divide the kind;
Thofe, only fix'd, they first or latt obey,
The love of pleasure and the love of fway.
That, Nature gives; and where the leffor
taught

Is but to pleafe, can pleasure seem a fault?
Experience, this; by Man's oppreffion curft,
They feek the fecond not to lofe the firft.

Men, fome to bus'nefs, fome to pleasure take
But ev'ry Woman is at heart a raké:
Men, foine to quiet, fome to public ftrife;
But ev'ry Lady would be queen for life.
Yet mark the fate of a whole fex of queens!
Pow'r all their end, but beauty all the means:
In youth they conquer with fo wild a rage,
As leaves them fcarce a fubject in their age:
For foreign glory, foreign joy they roam;
No thought of peace or happiness at home.
But wifdom's triumph is well tim'd retreat,
As hard a fcience to the fair as great!
Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendlefs grown,
Yet hate repofe, and dread to be alone.
Worn out in public, weary ev'ry eye,
Nor leave one figh behind them when they die.
Pleafures the fex, as children birds, purfue;
Still out of reach, vet never out of view;
Sure, if they catch, to spoil the toy at most,
To covet flying, and regret when loft:
At last, to follies youth could fearce defend,
It grows their age's prudence to pretend;
Atham'd to own they gave delight before,
Reduc'd to feign it when they give no more:
As hags hold Sabbaths, lefs for joy than fpight,
So there their merry, miferable night;
Still round and round the ghofts of beauty glide,
And haunt the places where their honour dy'd.
See how the world its veterans rewards:
A youth of frolics, an old age of cards;
Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,
Young without lovers, old without a friend;
A fop their paffion, but their prize a fot,
Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot!

Ah! friend! to dazzle let the vain defign;
To raife the thought, and touch the heart be thine!
That charm fhall grow, while what fatigues the
ring,

Flaunts and goes down an unregarded thing:
So when the Sun's broad beam has tir'd the
fight,

All mild afcends the Moon's more fober light;
Serene in virgin modefty the fhines,
And, unobferv'd, the glaring orb declines.

Oh! bleft with temper, whofe unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day;
She who can love a fifter's charms, or hear
Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear;
She who ne'er anfwers till a husband cools;
Or, if the rules him, never fhews the rules;
Charms by accepting, by fubmitting fways,
Yet Iras her humour moft when the obeys:
Let fops or fortune fly which way they will;
Difdains all lofs of tickets, or codille';
Spleen, vapours, or finall-pox, above them all,
And miftreis of herfelf, tho' china fall.

And

And yet, believe me, good as well as ill, Woman's at beft a contradiction still. Heav'n, when it ftrives to polifh all it can, Its laft beft work, but forms a fofter man; Picks from each fex, to make the fav'rite bleft, Your love of pleasure, our defire of reft : Blends, in exception to all gen'ral rules, Your taste of follies with our fcorn of fools: Referve with frankness, art with truth ally'd, Courage with foftnefs, modesty with pride; Fix'd principles, with fancy ever new; Shakes all together, and produces-You.

Be this a Woman's fame; with this unbleft, Toafts live a fcorn, and queens may die a jeft. This Phoebus promis'd (I forget the year) When those blue eyes first open'd on the fphere; Afcendant Phoebus watch'd that hour with care, Averted half your parents fimple pray'r; And gave you beauty, but deny'd the pelf That buys your fex a tyrant o'er itself. The gen'rous God, who wit and gold refines, And ripens fpirits as he ripens mines,

Kept drofs for ducheffes, the world fhall know it, To you gave fenfe, good-humour, and a Peet.

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P. WHO fhall decide, when doctors difagree,
And foundeft cafuifts doubt, like you and me?
You hold the word, from Jove to Momus giv'n,
That man was made the standing jeft of Heav'n;
And gold but sent to keep the fools in play;
For fome to heap, and fome to throw away.

But I, who think more highly of our kind
(And furely, Heav'n and I are of a mind)
Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound,
Deep hid the fhining mifchief under ground:
But when by man's audacious labour won,
Flam'd forth this rival to its fire, the fun;
Then careful Heav'n fupply'd two forts of men;
To fquander thefe, and thofe to hide agen.
Like doctors thus, when much difpute has paft,
We find our tenets juft the fame at last.
Both fairly owning, riches in effect,
No grace of Heav'n, or token of th'clect;
Giv'n to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil,
To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the devil.
B. What Nature wants, commodious gold
bestows;

'Tis thus we eat the bread another fows.

P. But how unequal it bestows, observe, 'Tis thus we riot, while, who fow it starve: What Nature wants (a phrafe I must diftruft) Extends to luxury, extends to luft: Ufeful I grant, it ferves what life requires; But dreadful too, the dark affatfin hires. B. Trade it may help, fociety extend: P. Butlures the pirate, and corrupts the friend. B. It raifes armies in a nation's aid:

P. But bribes a fenate, and the land's betray'd. In vain may herocs fight, and patriots rave, If fecret gold fap on from knave to knave,

Once, we confefs, beneath the patriot's cloak,
From the crack'd bag the dropping guinea fpoke,
And, jingling down the back-stairs, told the crew,
"Old Cato is as great a rogue as you."
Bleft paper-credit laft and beft fupply!
That lends corruption lighter wings to fly!
Gold, imp'd by thee, can compafs hardeft things,
Can pocket ftates, can fetch or carry kings;
A fingle leaf fhall waft an army o'er,
Or thip off fenates to fome diftant fhore;
A leaf, like Sibyl's, scatter to and fro
Our fates and fortunes, as the wind fhall blow:
Pregnant with thoufands flits the fcrap unten,
And filent fells a king, or buys a queen.

Oh! that fuch bulky bribes as all might fee,
Still, as of old, incumber'd villany!
Could France or Rome divert our brave designs
With all their brandies, or with all their wines,
What could they more than knights and 'fquires.
confound,

Or water all the quorum ten miles round?
Aftatefman's flumbers howthis fpeechwould spoil!
Sir, Spain has fent a thousand jars of oil;
Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door:
A hundred oxen at your levee roar.'

Poor avarice one torment more would find; Nor could profufion fquander all in kind. Aftride his cheefe Sir Morgan might we meet; And Worldly crying coals from street to ftreet; Whom, with a wig fo wild, and mien fo maz'd, Pity mistakes for fome poor tradefiman craz'd. Had Colepepper's whole wealth been hops and hogs,

Could he himself have fent it to the dogs?
His Grace will game: to White's a bull be led
With fpurning heels and with a butting head.
To White's be carry'd, as to ancient games,
Fair courfers, vafes, and alluring dames.
Shall then Uxorio, if the ftakes he fweep,
Bear home fix whores, and make his lady weep?
Or foft Adonis, fo perfum'd and fine,
Drive to St. James's a whole herd of fivine?
Oh filthy check on all induftrious skill,
To fpoil the nation's laft great trade, Quadrille !
Since then, my Lord, on fuch a world we fall,
What fay you? B. Say? Why take it, gold

and all.

P. What riches gives us, let us then inquire: Meat, fire, and cloaths. B. What more. P. Meat, cloaths, and fire.

Is this too little? would you more than live?
Alas! 'tis more than Turner finds they give.
Alas! 'tis more than (all his vifions paft)
Unhappy Wharton, waking, found at last!
What can they give? to dying Hopkins, heirs;
To Chartres vigour; Japhet, nofe and cars?
Can they, in gems bid pallid Hippia glow?
In Fulvia's buckle eafe the throbs below?
Or heal, old Narfes, thy obfcener ail,
With all th'embroid'ry plafter'd at thy tail!
They might (were Harpax not too wife to spend)
Give Harpax felf the blefling of a friend;
Or find fome doctor that would fave the life
Of wretched Shylock, spite of Shylock's wife:

But

But thoufands die, without or this or that;
Die, and endow a college, or a cat!

To fome, indeed, Heav'n grants the happier fate,
T'enrich a baftard, or a fon they hate. [part?
Perhaps you think the poor might have their
Bond damns the poor, and hates them from his
heart:

The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule,
That ev'ry man in want is knave or fool:
• God cannot love (fays Plunt, with tearlefs eyes)
The wretch he ftarves'-and piously denies:
But the good Bishop, with a mecker air,
Admits, and leaves them Providence's care.
Yet, to be just to those poor men of pelf,
Each does but hate his neighbour as himself:
Damn'd to the mines, an equal fate betides
The flave that digs it, and the flave that hides.
B. Who fuffer thus, mere charity fhould own,
Muft act on motives pow'rful, tho' unknown.
P. Some war, fome plague, or famine they forefee,
Some revelation hid from you and me.
Why Shylock wants a meal the caufe is found;
He thinks a loaf will rife to fifty pound.
What made Directors cheat in South-Sea year?
To live on ven'fon when it fold fo dear.
Afk you why Phryne the whole auction buys?
Phryne forefees a general excife.
Why the and Sappho raife that monftrous fum:
Alas! they fear a man will coft a plum.

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Wife Peter fees the world's refpect for gold,
And therefore hopes this nation may be fold:
Glorious ambition! Peter fwell thy store,
And be what Rome's great Didius was before.

The crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
To juft three millions ftinted modeft Gage.
But nobler fcenes Maria's dreams unfold,
Hereditary realms, and worlds of gold.
Congenial fouls! whofe life one av'rice joins,
And one fate buries in th' Afturian mines.
Much-injur'd Blunt! why bears he Britain's
hate?

A wizard told him in thefe words our fate:
At length corruption, like a gen'ral flood
(So long by watchful minifters withstood)
Shall deluge all; and av'rice creeping on,
· Spread like a low-born mift, and blot the fun;
Statefman and patriot ply alike the stocks,
• Peerefs and butler fhare alike the box,

' arms!'

And judges job, and bishops bite the town,
• And mighty dukes pack cards for half a crown.
See Britain funk in lucre's fordid charms,
• And France reveng'd of Anne's and Edward's
[brain,
'Twas no court ba ige, great Scriv'ner! fir'd thy
Nor lordiy luxurv, nor city gain:
No, 'twas thy righteous end, afham'd to fee
Senates degen'rate, patriots difagree,
And nobly willing party-rage to ceafe,.

To by both fides, and give thy country peace.
All this is manefs,' cries a fober fage:

4

But who, my friend, has reafon in his rage?

The ruling afhon, be it what it will,

I

The ruling paffion conquers reafon still.

Lefs mad the wildett whimfey we can frame,
Than ev'n that paffion, if it has no aim;

For tho' fuch motives folly you may call,
The folly's greater to have none at all. [fends,
Hearthen the truth: 'Tis Heav'n each paffion
And diff'rent men directs to diff'rent ends.
'Extremes in nature equal good produce;
Extremes in man concur to gen'ral ufe.'
Afk we what makes one keep, and one beftow?
That Pow'r who bids the ocean ebb and flow;
Bids feed-time, harveft, equal courfe maintain,
| Thro' reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain;
Builds life on death, on change duration founds,
And gives th'eternal wheels to know their rounds.

Riches, like infects, when conceal'd they lie,
Wait but for wings, and in their fealon fly.
Who fees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward fteward for the poor;
This year a refervoir, to keep and spare;
The next, a fountain, spouting thro' his heir,
In lavifh streams to quench a country's thirst;
And men and dogs fhall drink him till they burst.
Old Cotta fham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:
What tho' (the ufe of barb'rous fpits forgot)
His kitchen vy'd in coolnefs with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with creffes ftor'd,
With foups unbought and fallads blest his board?
If Cotta liv'd on pulfe, it was no more
Than bramins, faints, and fages did before;
To cram the rich was prodigal expence ;
And who would take the poor from Providence?
Like fome lone Chartreux itands the good old hall,
Silence without, and fafts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor found,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with fighs the fmokeless tow'rs furvey,
And turn th'unwilling fteeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the foreft o'er,
Curfe the fav'd candle, and unop'ning door;
While the gaunt mastiff growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar, whom he longs to cat.

Not fo his fon, he mark'd this overfight,
And then mistook reverfe of wrong for right.
(For what to fhun will no great knowledge need;
But what to follow is a tafk indeed.)
Yet fure, of qualities deferving praise,
More go to ruin fortunes than to raife.
What flaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'fquire and deep divine!
Yet no mean motives this profufion draws,
His oxen perifh in his country's caufe;
'Tis George and Liberty that crowns the cup,
And zeal for that great houfe 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

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Not meanly, nor ambitioufly purfu'd,
Not funk by floth, nor rais'd by fervitude;
To balance fortune by a juft expence,
Join with economy, magnificence;

With fplendour, charity; with plenty, health!
Oh teach us, Bathurft! 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 weil weigh'd be bounty giv'n,

And cafe or emulate the care of Heav'n;
(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race)
Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace.
Wealth in the grofs is death; but life diffus'd,
As poifon heals, in just 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 eats?
The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that
cheats.

Is there a lord who knows a cheerful noon
Without a fidler, flatt'rer, or buffoon?
Whose table, wit, or modeft merit share,
Unelbow'd by a gamefter, pimp, or player?
Who copies your's, or Oxford's better part,
To cafe 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 should lords engrofs? Rife, honest Muse! and fing the Man of Ross : Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?

From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the fkies in ufelcfs 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 heav'n-directed fpire to rife?
The Man of Rofs,' each lifping babe replies.
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 finiling 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,
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 attornies, now an ufclefs race.

B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all fo with, but want the pow'r to do!
Oh fay, what fums that gen'rous hand fupply?
What mines to fwell that boundless charity?
P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children
clear,

This man polleft-five hundred pounds a year.

Blush, grandeur blufh! proud courts withdraw

your blaze!

Ye little ftars! hide your diminfh'd rays.

B. And what! no monument, infcription, ftone 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 ftands, Belies his features, nay extends his hands; That live-long wig which Gorgon's felf might Eternal buckle takes in Parian ftone. [own, 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-ty'd 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; Or just as gay, at council, in a ring Of mimic ftatefinen, and their merry king. No wit to flatter left, of all his ftore! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of ufelefs thoufands ends.

His Grace's fate fage Cutler could forefee, And well (he thought) advis'd him, like me.'

Live

As well his Grace reply'd, Like you,
Sir John?
That I can do, when all I have is gone.'
Refolve me, Reafon, which of thefe 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 houfes fall,
For very want; he could not build a wall.
His ouly 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 ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end,
Banifh'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,

P

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