Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;

EPISTLE IV.
His word would país for more than he was worth.
One folid dith luis week-day meal affords,

T, Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington.
An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's : 'TIS (trange, the miser should his cares einplog
Constant at church and 'change; his gains were To gain those richies he can ne'er enjoy:
fure,

Is it less strange the prodigal should waste His givings rare, save farthings to the poor. His wealth to purchale what he ne'er can tafte!

The dev'l was piqu’d such faintship to behold, Not for himself he fees, or hears, or cats ; And long’d to tempt hiin, like good job of old! Artists mast chuse his pictures, music, meats : But Satan now is wifer than of

He buys for Topham drawings and designs ;

pore, And tempts by making rich, not inaking poor.

For Pembroke ftatues, dirty gods, and coins; Rouz'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds tiveep And books for Vicad, and butterflies for Sloane

Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone; The furgc, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full againit inis Cornish lands they roar,

Think we ali there are for himself? No more And two sich thipurecks blets the lucky thore.

Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted! Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks ;

Only to thew how many tastes he wanted. He takes his chirping pint, and crackshis jokcs: What brought Sir Vifto’s ill-got wealth to waste? • Lire like yourfelf,' was foon my lady's word; some dæmon whilper'd. Visto! have a taste.' And lo! two puddings sinok'd upon

the board.

Heav'n visits with a taste the wealthy fool, Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,

And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule. An honeft factor stole a gem away :

Sec! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride, He pledg:d it to the knight; the kniglit had wit, Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide : So kept the di'mond; and the rogue was bit. A standing sermon, at cach year's expence, Some fcruple rose, but thus hc eas'd his thought, That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence ! "l'il now give fixpence where I gave a groat; You fhew us Rome was glorious, not profuse, • Where once I went to church, I'll now go And.pompous buildings once were things of use: twice;

Yet Thall (iny Lord) your just, your noble rules And am to clear too of all other vice.'

Fill half the land with imitating fools; (take, The tempter saw his time; the work he ply'd; Who random drawings from your sheets thali Stocks and sublcriptions pour on ev'ry side,

And of onc beauty many blunders make; Till all the demon makes his full deicent.

Load some vain church with old thcatric state, In one abundant show'r of cent, per cent.

Turn arcs of triumph to a garden-gate; Sinks deep within him, and posicfles whole,

Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all Then dubs director, and secure's his foul.

On fomne patch'd dog-holc ek'd with ends of wall; Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,

Then clap four slices of pilafter on’t,

That, lac'd with bits of ruftic, makes a front. Alcribes his gettings to his parts and merit; Shall call the winds thro' long arcades to roar, What late hc call'd a bleting, now was wit; Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door ; And God's good providence, a lucky hit.

Conícious they act a true Palladian part, Things change their titles as our manners turn :

And if they starve, they starve by rules of art. His compting-houle employ'd the Sunday morn: Seldom at church ('twas tuch a busy life)

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer,

A certain truth, which many buy too dear : But duly tent his family and wife. There (to the dev'l ordaind) one Christmas tide And something previous ev'n to tatic-'tis tente;

Something there is more needful than expence, My good old lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd.

Good tense, which only is the gift of Heav'n, A nymph of quality adinires our knight; And tho' no science, fairly worth the seven : He marries, bow's at court, and grows polite: A light, which in yourself you muit perceive; Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) Jones and Le Nôtre lave it not to give. The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air : To build, to plant, whatever you intend, First, for his son a gay commillion burs, To rear the column, or the arch to bend, Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duc dies. To livell the terras, or to link the grot; His daughter flaunts a viicourit’ tawdry wito; In all, let nature never be forgot; She bears a coronct and p-x for lifc.

But ticat the Goddels like a mudent fair, In Britain's fenatc he a scat obtains,

Nor over-drets, nor leave her wholly bare i And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains. Let not each beauty er’rywhere be ipy'd, My lady falls to play: so bad her chance, Where half the skill is decently to hide. He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; He gains all points who pleasingly confounds, The Houic impeach him, Coning by ha Surprizes, varies, and conceals the bounds. rangucs;

Consult the genius of the place in all; The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs; That tells the waters or to rise or fall ; Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own; Or helps th'ambitious hill the heav'ns to fcalc, His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the croivn: The devil and the king divide the prize,

Or scooj's in circling theatres the vale;

Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades, And fød Sir Balaain curses God and dica Joins willing woods, and varies ihades from thades;

Now

Whofe rifing forefts, not for pride or show,
Bu.. rure buildings, future navies, grow:
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
Firft 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 themselves restore,
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;
Thefe arc imperial works, and worthy kings.

Poor Vadius, long with learned fpleen devour'd,
Can tafte no pleature fince his fhield was fcour'd:
And Curio, reftiefs 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 thine;
Her gods and godlike heroes rife to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush, 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 vanquifh'd realms fupply recording gold?
Here, rifing bold, the patriot's honeft face;
There, warriors frowning in hiftoric brafs :
Then future ages with delight fhall fee
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;

15. Epifle to Mr. Addison, occafioned by his Or in fair feries laurell'd bards be shown,

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 stroke of mould'ting age,
Some hoftile fury, fome religious rage.
Barbarian blindacfs, Chriftian zeal confpire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Perhaps, by its own ruins fav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preferves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce difputes pur-
And give to Titus old Vefpafian's due. [fue,

Ambition figh'd: fhe found it vain to truft
The faithlefs column and the crumbling buft:
Huge moles, whofe fhadow ftretch'd from shore
to fhore,

Their ruins perifh'd, and their place no more!
Convinc'd, the now contracts her vaft defign,
And all her triumphs fhrink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conqueft keeps;
Beneath her palm here fad Judea weeps.
Now feantier limits the proud arch confine,
And fearce are feen the proftrate Nile or Rhine;
A finall Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
"Thro' climes and ages bears cach forin and name;
In one thort view fubjected to our eye,
Gods, emprots, heroes, figes, beauties, lie.
With tharpen'd fight pale antiquaries pore;
Th'infeription value, but the ruft adore.
This the blue varith, that the green endears,
The facred ruft of twice ten hundred years!
To gain Pefcennius one employs his fchemes;
One grafps a Cecrops in extatic dreams.

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,
Statefman, yet friend to truth! of foul fincer
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;
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd;
And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Mufe he lov'd'

16. Epifle to Dr. Arbuthnot, being the Proingat
to the Satires. POPE.

P.SHUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu'd I
Tye up the knocker, fay I'm fick, I'm dead.
The Dog-ftar rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnaffus, 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 thades
can hide?

They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they glide,
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They ftop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is facred, not the Church is fice;
Ev'n Sunday fhines no Sabbath-day to me '
Then from the Mint walks forththe man of rhyme
Happy to catch ine juft at dinner-time!

Is there a parfon, much bemus'd in beer,
A maudlin poctefs, a rhyming peer,
A clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a ftanza when he thould engros?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, ferans
With defp'rate charcoal round his darken'd wall?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble ftrain,
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whofe giddy fon neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife clope;
And curfes wit, and poetry, and P'ope.

Frisc

Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
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 spcd;

If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lye:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face;
I fit with fad civility, I read

With honeft anguish, 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-lane,
Lull'd by foft zephyrs thro' the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Oblig'd by hunger, and requeft of friends:
The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it,
'I'm all fubmiflion, what you'd have it, make it.'
Three things another's modeft wifhes bound;
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pithcleon fends to me: You know his Grace:
I want a patron; afk him for a place.'
Pitholcon libell'd me- but here's a letter
Informs you, Sir, t'was when he knew no better.
'Dare you refufe him? Curl invites to dine;
He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine.'
Blefs me a packet.-' 'Tis a stranger fues,
A virgin tragedy, an orphan mufe.'
If I diflike it, Furies, death and rage!'
If I approve, Commend it to the stage.'
There (thank my ftars) my whole commiffion
The players and I are, luckily, no friends. [ends,
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 whifpers, Do, and we go fnacks.'
Glad of a quarrel, ftrait I clap the door,
'Sir, let me fee
your works and you no more.'
'Tis fung, when Midas' cars began to fpring
(Midas, a facred person and a king)
His very minifter who fpy'd them first,
(Some fay his queen) was forc'd to fpeak, or burft.
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 those 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:
The truth once told (andwherefore thould we lic?)
The queen of Midas flept, and fo may I.

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 can't hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gall'ry in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou stand'st unfhook amidst a bursting world.
1.7

Who fhames a fcribbler? break one cobweb thro',
He fpins the flight, felf-pleafing thread anew :
Deftroy his fib or fophiftry, in vain,
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin defigns,
Proud of a vaft extent of flimfy lines!
Whom have I hurt! has poet yet, or peer,
Loft the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnaffian fheer?
And has not Colly ftill his lord and whore ?
His butcher's Henly, his free-mafon's Moor.
Does not one table Bavius ftill admit ?
Still to one bifhop Philips feem a wit [offend:
Still Sappho-A. Hold, for God's fake—you'll
No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend:
I too could write, and I am twice as tall; [all.
But foes like thefe-P. One flatt'rer's worfe than
Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, ̧
It is the flaver kills, and not the bite.
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Alas! 'tis ten times worfe when they repent.
One dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes;
One from all Grub-street will my fame defend,
And, more abufive, calls himfelf my friend:
This prints my Letters; that expects a bribe;
And others roar aloud, Subfcribe, fubfcribe "

There are, who to my perfon pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and, tho' lean, am fhort.
Ammon's great fon one fhoulder had too high;.
Such Ovid's nofe; and, Sir! you have an eye'
Go on, obliging creatures, make me fee
All that difgrac'd my betters met in me.
Say for my comfort, languifhing in bed,

Juft fo immortal Maro held his head ;'
And when I die, be fure you let me know
Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.

Why did I write what fin to me unknown.
Dipt me in ink, my parent's, or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
I lifp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,
No duty broke, no father difobey'd:
The Mufe but ferv'd to cafe fome friend, not wife,
To help me thro' this long difcafe, my life;
To fecond, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,
And teach the being you prefery'd to bear.

But why then publith Granville the polite,"
And knowing Walth, would tell me I could write;
Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praife;
And Congreve lov'd; and Swift endur'd my lays;
The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read;
Ev'n mitred Rochefter would nod the head;
And St. John's felf (great Dryden's friends be-
With open arms receiv'd one poet more. [fore)
Happy my ftudies, when by thefe approv❜d!
Happier their author, when by thefe belov'd!
From thefe the world will judge of men and books,
Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence
While pure defcription held the place of fente ?
Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme,
A painted miftrefs, or a purling ftream.
Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
I wish'd the man a dinner, and fat ftill.

P 3

Yet