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Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bosom move With wretched av'rice, or as wretched love? Know, there are words, and spells, which can controul Between the fits this fever of the foul:
Know, there are rhymes, which fresh and fresh apply'd Will cure the arrant'ft puppy of his pride. 60
Be furious, envious, flothful, mad, or drunk,
Slave to a wife, or vaffal to a punk,
A Switz, a High-Dutch, or a Low-Dutch bear;
All that we afk is but a patient ear.
'Tis the firft virtue, vices to abhor :
And the first wisdom, to be fool no more.
But to the world no bugbear is fo great,
As want of figure, and a small eftate.
To either India fee the merchant fly,
Scar'd at the spectre of pale poverty
See him, with pains of body, pangs of foul,
Burn through the tropic, freeze beneath the pole?
Wilt thou do nothing for a noble end,
Nothing, to make philofophy thy friend?
To ftop thy foolish views, thy long defires,
And ease thy heart of all that it admires?
Here Wisdom calls: "Seek virtue firft, be bold!
"As gold to filver, virtue is to gold."
There, London's voice, "Get money, money ftill!
“And then let Virtue follow, if she will."
This, this the faving doctrine, preach'd to all,
From low St. James's up to high St. Paul! *
From him whofe quills ftand quiver'd at his ear,
To him who notches fticks at Weftminfter.
A penfion, or fuch harness for a flave
As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.
Barnard, thou art a cit, with all thy worth;
But Bug and D*1, their Honours, and so forth.
*This is a doctrine in which both Whigs and Tories agree.
Barnard in fpirit, fenfe, and truth abounds; "Pray then, what wants he?" fourfcore thoufand
'Yet ev'ry child another fong will fing, "Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king." True, confcious honour is to feel no fin, He's arm'd without that's innocent within; Be this thy fcreen, and this thy wall of brass; Compar'd to this a minister's an ass.
And say, to which shall our applause belong,
This new court-jargon, or the good old fong?
The modern language of corrupted peers,
Or what was spoke at CRESSY or POITIERS?
Who counfels beft? who whispers, "Be but great,
"With praise or infamy leave that to fate;
"Get place and wealth, if poffible, with grace;
"If not, by any means, get wealth and place."
For what? to have a box where eunuchs fing,
And foremost in the circle eye a king.
Or he, who bids thee face with steady view
Proud Fortune, and look fhallow Greatnefs thro':
And, while he bids thee, fets th' example too?
If fuch a doctrine in St. James's air,
Shou'd chance to make the well-drefs'd rabble ftare;
In honeft S*z take scandal at a spark,
That lefs admires the Palace than the Park:
Faith I shall give the answer Reynard gave :
"I cannot like, dread Sir, your royal cave: "Because I fee, by all the tracks about,
"Full many a beast goes in, but none come out."
Adieu to virtue, if you're once a slave :
Send her to court, you send her to her grave.
Well, if a king's a lion, at the least
The people are a many-headed beast :
Can they direct what measures to pursue,
Who know themselves fo little what to do?
Alike in nothing but one luft of gold,
Juft half the land would buy, and half be fold:
Their country's wealth our mightier mifers drain,
Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main;
The reft, fome farm the poor-box, fome the pews;
Some keep affemblies, and would keep the stews;
Some with fat bucks on childlefs dotards fawn;
Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn ;
While with the filent growth of ten per cent,
In dirt and darknefs, hundreds ftink content.
You laugh, half beau, half floven if I ftand,
My wig all powder, and all fnuff my band;
You laugh, if coat and breeches ftrangely vary,
White gloves, and linen worthy lady Mary!
Of all these ways, if each pursues his own, Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone: But fhew me one who has it in his pow'r To act confiftent with himself an hour, Sir Job fail'd forth, the ev'ning bright and ftill, "No place on earth (he cry'd) like Greenwich hill !" Up ftarts a palace, lo, th' obedient base Slopes at its foot, the woods its fides embrace, The filver Thames reflects its marble face. Now let fome whimfy, or that dev'l within Which guides all those who know not what they mean, But give the knight (or give his lady) spleen; "Away, away! take all your scaffolds down, "For fnug's the word: my dear! we'll live in town." At am'rous Flavio is the ftocking thrown?
That very night he longs to lie alone.
The fool, whose 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 chaise and one;
They hire their fculler, and when once aboard,
Grow fick, and damn the climate-like a lord.
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; 170
You never change one mufcle of your face,
You think this madness but a common cafe,
Nor once to Chanc'ry, nor to Hale apply;
Yet hang your lip, to see a seam awry !
Carelefs how ill I with myself agree,
Kind to my drefs, my figure, not to me.
Is this my guide, philofopher, 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 Wisdom calls her own;
Great without title, without fortune bless'd;
Rich ev'n when plunder'd, honour'd while opprefs'd;
Lov'd without youth, and follow'd without power;
At home, tho' exil'd, free, tho' in the Tower;
In short, that reas'ning, high, immortal thing,
Juft less than Jove, and much above a king,
Nay, half in heav'n-except (what's mighty odd)
A fit of vapours clouds this demi-god?
SIXTH EPISTLE of the FIRST BOOK
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 speech,
So take it in the very words of Creech)
This vault of air, this congregated ball,
Self-center'd fun, and ftars 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
day, the year,
And view this dreadful All without a fear.
*This piece is the most finished of all his imitations, and executed in the high manner the Italian painters call con amore. By which they mean, the exertion of that principle, which puts the faculties on the stretch, and produces the fupreme degree of excellence. For the poet had all the warmth of affection for the great lawyer to whom it is addreffed; and, indeed, no man ever more deserved to have a Poet for his friend. In the obtaining of which, as neither vanity, party, nor fear, had any fhare: fo he supported his title to it by all the offices of true friendship.