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Well, on the whole, plain profe must be my fate

Wisdom (curfe on it) will come foon or late.

There is a time when poets will grow dull:

I'll e'en leave verses to the boys at school:
To rules of poetry no more confin'd,
I'll learn to fmooth and harmonize my mind,
Teach ev'ry thought within its bounds to roll,
And keep the equal measure of the foul.

Soon as I enter at my country door,
My mind refumes the thread it dropt before;
Thoughts, which at Hyde-park-corner I forgot,
Meet and rejoin me, in the penfive grot.
There all alone, and compliments apart,
I afk thefe fober queftions of my heart.

If, when the more you drink, the more you crave,
You tell the doctor; when the more you have,
The more you want, why not with equal ease
Confefs as well your folly, as difeafe?
The heart refolves this matter in a trice,
"Men only feel the smart, but not the yice."

When golden angels cease to cure the evil,
You give all royal witchcraft to the devil:
When fervile chaplains cry, that birth and place
Endue a peer with honour, truth, and grace,
Look in that breaft, moft dirty D! be fair,
Say, can you find out one fuch lodger there?
Yet ftill, not heeding what your heart can teach,
You go to church to hear these flatt'rers preach.
Indeed, could wealth beftow or wit or merit,
A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit,
The wifeft man might blush, I must agree,
If D*** lov'd fixpence more than he.

If there be truth in law, and use can give
A property, that's yours on which you live.
Delightful Abs-court, if its fields afford
Their fruits to you, confeffes you its lord:

↑ A farm over against Hampton-Court.










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All Worldly's hens, nay, partridge, fold to town,
His ven'fon too, a guinea makes your own:
He bought at thousands, what with better wit
You purchase as you want, and bit by bit;
Now, or long fince, what diff'rence will be found ?
You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.

Heathcote himself, and fuch large-acred men,
Lords of fat E'fham, or of Lincoln-fen,
Buy ev'ry ftick of wood that lends them heat t;
Buy ev'ry pullet they afford to eat,

Yet these are wights, who fondly call their own
Half that the dev'l o'erlooks from Lincoln town.
The laws of God, as well as of the land,
Abhor a perpetuity fhould ftand:


Eftates have wings, and hang in fortune's pow'r
Loose on the point of ev'ry wav'ring hour,
Ready, by force, or of your own accord,
By fale, at leaft by death, to change their lord.
Man? and for ever? wretch! what would'ft thou have?
Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave.
All vaft poffeffions (just the fame the cafe
Whether you call them villa, park, or chase)
Alas, my BATHURST! what will they avail ?
Join Cotswood hills to Saperton's fair dale,

Let rifing granaries and temples here,
There mingled farms and pyramids appear,
Link towns to towns with avenues of oak,
Enclose whole downs in walls, 'tis all a joke!
Inexorable death fhall level all,






And trees, and ftones, and farms, and farmer fall.
Gold, filver, iv'ry, vases sculptur'd high,
Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian dye,
There are who have not-and thank heav'n there are,
Who, if they have not, think not worth their care.


Talk what you will of tafte, my friend, you'll find
Two of a face, as foon as of a mind.

Why, of two brothers, rich and reftlefs one
Plows, burns, manures, and toils from fun to fun




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The other flights, for women, fports, and wines,
All Townshend's turnips, and all Grofvenor's mines:
Why one like Bu-with pay and feorn content,"
Bows and votes on, in Court and Parliament;
One, driv'n by ftrong benevolence of foul,
Shall fly, like Oglethorpe +, from pole to pole:
Is known alone to that directing pow'r,
Who forms the genius in the natal hour;
That god of nature, who, within us ftill,
Inclines our action, not conftrains our will
Various of temper, as of face or frame,
Each individual: his great end the fame.

Yes, Sir, how finall foever be my heap,
A part I will enjoy, as well as keep.
My heir may figh, and think it want of grace
A man fo poor would live without a place:
But fure no ftatute § in his favour fays,
How free, or frugal, I fhall pass my days :
I, who at fometimes fpend, at others fpare,
Divided between careleffnefs and care.
'Tis one thing madly to difperfe my ftore;
Another, not to heed to treasure more ;
Glad, like a boy, to fnatch the firft good day,
And pleas'd, if fordid want be far away.

What is't to me (a paffenger God wot)
Whether my veffel be first-rate or not?
The ship itself may make a better figure,
But I that fail, am neither lefs nor bigger.
I neither ftrut with ev'ry fav'ring breath,
Nor ftrive with all the tempeft in my teeth.
In pow'r, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, plac'd
Behind the foremoft, and before the last.







* Lord Townshend, Secretary of State to George the First and Second.— When this great statesman retired from business, he amused himself in hufbandry; and was particularly fond of that kind of rural imprøvement which arifes from turnips; it was the favourite subject of his converfation.

+ Employed in fettling the colony of Georgia.

Alluding to the ftatutes made in England and Ireland, to regulate the fucceffion of Papists, &c.



<< But

"But why all this of av'rice? I have none."

I wish you joy, Sir, of a tyrant gone;
But does no other lord it at this hour,
As wild and mad? the avarice of pow'r?
Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appall?
Not the black fear of death, that faddens all?
With terrors round, can reason hold her throne,
Despise the known, nor tremble at th' unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
In fpite of witches, devils, dreams and fire ?
Pleas'd to look forward, pleas'd to look behind,
And count each birth-day with a grateful mind?
Has life no fournefs, drawn fo near its end;
Can'ft thou endure a foe, forgive a friend?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter-fruits grow mild ere they decay?
Or will you think, my friend, your bufinefs done, 320
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?

Learn to live well, or fairly make your will;

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You've play'd, and lov'd, and eat, and drank your fill:
Walk fober off; before a fprightlier age

Comes titt'ring on, and shoves you from the stage: 325

Leave fuch to trifle with more grace and eafe,

Whom folly pleases, and whofe follies please.

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Quid vetat et nofmet Lucili fcripta legentes
Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit
Verficulos natura magis factos, et euntes
Mollius ?




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