Some fly, like Pendulums, from Good to Evil,
And in that Point are madder than the Devil :

To what will thefe vile Maxims tend? And where, fweet Sir, will your Reflections end?

In You.

SERVANT.

POET.

In Me, you Knave? Make out your Charge.
SERVANT.

You praise low-living, but you live at large.
Perhaps you scarce believe the Rules you teach,
Or find it hard to practise what you preach.
Scarce have you paid one idle Journey down,
But, without Business, you're again in Town.
If none invite
you, Sir, abroad to roam,
Then-Lord, what Pleasure 'tis to read at home!
And fip your two Half-pints with great Delight
Of Beer at Noon, and muddled Port at Night.
From* Encombe, John comes thund'ring at the Door,
With, Sir, my Mafter begs you to come o'er,

To pafs thefe tedious Hours, thefe Winter Nights,
'Not that he dreads Invafions, Rogues, or Sprites."
Strait for your two beft Wigs aloud you call,
This ftiff in Buckle, that not curl'd at all.
And where, you Rafcal, are the Spurs,' you cry;
And O! what Blockhead laid the Bufkins by ?"

The Seat of JOHN PITT, Efquire, in Dorfetfhire.

On your old batter'd Mare you'll needs be gone,
(No Matter whether on four Legs or none)
Splash, plunge and ftumble as you scour theHeath,
All fwear at Morden 'tis on Life or Death:
Wildly through Wareham Streets you fcamper on,
Raife all the Dogs and Voters in the Town;
Then fly for fix long dirty Miles as bad,
That Corfe and King fton Gentry think you mad.
And all this furious Riding is to prove
Your high Refpect, it feems, and eager Love:
And yet that mighty Honour to obtain,
Banks, Shaftesbury, Dodington, may fend in vain.
Before you go, we curfe the Noife you make,
And blefs the Moment that you turn your Back,
As for myfelf, I own it to your Face,

I love good Eating, and I take my Glafs :
But fure 'tis ftrange, dear Sir, that this fhould be
In You Amusement, but a Fault in Me.

All this is bare refining on a Name,

To make a Difference where the Fault's the fame.

My Father fold me to your Service here, For this fine Livery and four Pounds a Year. A Livery you should wear as well as I,

And this I'll prove but lay your Cudgel by. You ferve your Paffions. Thus, without a Jeft, Both are but Fellow-fervants at the beft. Yourself, good Sir, are play'd by your Defires, A mere tall Puppet dancing on the Wires.

POET

POET.

Who, at this Rate of talking, can be free?
SERVANT.

The brave, wife, honeft Man, and only He.
All elfe are Slaves alike, the World around,
Kings on the Throne, and Beggars on the Ground.
He, Sir, is Proof to Grandeur, Pride, or Pelf,
And (greater ftill) is Master of himself:

Not to-and-fro by Fears and Factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the Interefts of the World:
And while that World turns round, entire and whole
He keeps the facred Tenor of his Soul;

In every Turn of Fortune ftill the fame,
As Gold unchang'd, or brighter from the Flame
Collected in himself, with godlike Pride,
He fees the Darts of Envy glance afide;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the Tempests blow,
Smiles at the idle Storms that roar below.
One fuch you know, a Layman, to your Shame,
And yet the Honour of your Blood and Name.
If you can fuch a Character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your Slave again.

But when in Hemfkirk's Pictures you delight, More than myself, to fee two Drunkards fight, Fool, Rogue, Sot, Blockhead,' or fuch Names, are mine;

،

Yours are, a Connoiffeur, or deep Divine.'
I'm chid for loving a luxurious Bit,

The facred Prize of Learning, Worth, and Wit:

And yet fome fell their Lands thefe Rits to buy ;
Then, pray, who fuffers moft from Luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no Plate,
I feal no Bonds, I mortgage no Eftate.

Befides, high Living, Sir, muft wear you out With Surfeits, Qualms, a Fever, or the Gout. By fome new Pleasures are you ftill engrofs'd, And when you fave an Hour, you think it loft. To Sports, Plays, Races, from your Books you run, And like all Company, except your own.

You hunt, drink, fleep, or (idler ftill) you rhyme: Why?-but to banish Thought, and murderTime. And yet that Thought, which you discharge in Like a foul loaded Piece, recoils again.

POET.

[vain,

Tom, fetch a Cane, a Whip, a Club, a Stone

He's in a mad, or in a rhyming Fit.

POET.

Fly, fly, you Rafcal, for your Spade and Fork;

For once I'll fet your lazy Bones to work.

Fly, or I'll fend you back without a Groat

To the bleak Mountains where you firft were

caught.

NOTE

NOTE.

The Author of this Imitation was educated at Winchefter School. When he was near the Head of it, he gave up, as an Exercife after the Holidays, a poetical Verfion of the ten Books of Lucan. He was Fellow of New-College, Oxford, and afterwards Rector of Pimpern, near Blandford, in Dorsetshire. He is well known to the learned World as the Tranflator of Vida's Art of Poetry, and Virgil's Æneid. The former would have been more ufeful, had it been illuftrated with Notes. He also pub. lished a Volume of occafional Poems. The above Imitation, and fome others in this Collection, were printed fince his Decease. He was related to the Pitts of Dorfetfhire, who have fo eminently diftinguished themselves in Parliament, and to Dr. Lowth.

One of Mr. Pitt's learned Friends wrote the following Lines on his Translation of Vida:

Vida no more the long Oblivion fears,

Which hid his Virtues through a Length of Years;
Ally'd to thee, he lives again; thy Rhymes
Shall friendly bear him down to latest Times,
And do his injur'd Reputation Right;
While in thy Work, with fuch Succefs, unite
His Strength of Judgment, and his Charms of Speech,
That Precepts please, and Mufic seems to teach.

GLOCESTER RIDLEY.