But from a crowd can fingle out his Grace,
And cringe and creep to * fools who ftrut in lace.
Whether thofe claffic regions are furvey'd,
Where we in earlieft youth together ftray'd,
Where hand in hand we trod the flow'ry fhore,
Tho' now thy happier genius runs before;
When we confpir'd a thankless wretch to raise,
And taught a fump to fhoot with pilfer'd praise,
Who once for Rev'rend merit famous grown
Gratefully ftrove to kick his Maker down:
Or if more gen'ral arguments engage,
The court or camp, the pulpit, bar, or stage:
If half-bred furgeons, whom men doctors call,
And lawyers, who were never bred at all,
Thofe mighty-letter'd monfters of the earth,
Our pity move, or exercife our mirth:
Or if in tittle-tattle, tooth-pick way,
Our rambling thoughts with easy freedom ftray;
A gainer ftill thy friend himself must find,
His grief fufpended, and improv'd his mind.

Whilft peaceful flumbers blefs the homely bed,
Where Virtue, † self-approv'd, reclines her head;
Whilft Vice beneath imagin'd horrors mourns,
And Confcience plants the villain's couch with thorns;
Impatient of restraint, the active mind,

No more by fervile prejudice confin'd,

* Men of rank and fortune, however weak or wicked they may be, will always find fools enough to court, and fycophants enough to flatter them.

+ Having nothing within to distract the mind, or disturb the rest, virtue is truly its own reward, tho' dwelling in the cotta of an humble fwain.

Leaps from her feat, as waken'd from a trance,
And darts through Nature at a fingle glance;
Then we our friends, our foes, ourselves, furvey,
And fee by night what fools we are by day.

Stript of her gaudy plumes and vain disguise,
See where Ambition mean and loathsome lies!
Reflection, with relentless hand, pulls down
The tyrant's bloody wreath and ravish'd crown.
In vain he tells of battles bravely won,

Of nations conquer'd, and of worlds undone :
Triumphs like these but ill with manhood fuit,
And fink the conqueror beneath the brute.
But if in searching round the world we find
Some gen'rous youth, the friend of all mankind
Whofe anger, like the bolt of Jove, is fped
In terrors only at the guilty head;

Whofe mercies, like Heav'n's dew, refreshing fall
In gen❜ral love and charity to all;

Pleas'd we behold fuch worth on any throne,
And doubly pleas'd we find it on our * own.
Through a false medium things are fhewn by day.
Pomp, wealth, and titles, judgment lead astray.
How many from appearance borrow ftate,

Whom Night difsdains to number with the great }
Muft not we laugh to fee yon lordling proud
Snuff up vile incenfe from a fawning crowd;
Whilst in his beam furrounding clients play,
Like infects in the fun's enliv'ning ray,
Whilft, Jehu-like, he drives at furious rate,
And feems the only charioteer of state;

*This is no unpleafing compliment to his prefent Majeftys. Heaven grant he may long live to deferve it I

Talking

Talking himself into a little God,

And ruling empires with a fingle nod?

Who would not think, to hear him law difpenfe,
That he had int'reft, and that they had fenfe?
Injurious thought! Beneath Night's honeft shade
When pomp
is buried and false colours fade,
Plainly we see, at that impartial hour,
Them dupes to pride, and him the tool of pow'r.
God help the man, condemn'd by cruel Fate
To court the feeming, or the real great!
Much forrow fhall he feel, and suffer more
Than any flave who * labours at the oar.
By flavish methods muft he learn to please,
By fmooth-tongu'd flatt'ry, that curft court-difeafe
Supple to ev'ry wayward mood strike fail,
And shift with shifting humour's peevish gale.
To Nature dead, he muft adopt vile Art,
And wear a smile, with anguish in his heart.
A fense of honour would deftroy his schemes,
And confcience ne'er must speak, unless in dreams.
When he hath tamely borne, for many years,
Cold looks, forbidding frowns, contemptuous fneers;
When he at last expects, good easy man,
To reap the profits of his labour'd plan;
Some cringing lacquey, or rapacious whore,
To favours of the Great the fureft door,
Some catamite, or pimp, in credit grown,
Who tempts another's wife, or fells his own,

To flatter the crimes, or fervilely court the fmiles, of the ric and great, is a work fit only for men deftitute of honour, probity and reputation.

L 6

Steps

Steps cross his hopes, the promis'd boon denies,
And for fome minion's minion claims the prize.
Foe to restraint, unpractis'd in deceit,

Too refolute, from nature's active heat,
To brook affronts, and tamely pass them by;
Too proud to flatter, too fincere to lie;
Too plain to please, too honeft to be great ;
Give me, kind Heav'n, an humbler, happier state :
Far from the place where men with pride deceive,
Where rascals promife, and where fools believe;
Far from the walk of folly, vice and strife,
Calm, independent, let me fteal thro' life,
Nor one vain wish my fteady thoughts beguile
To fear his Lordship's frown, or court his fmile.
Unfit for Greatnefs, I her fnares defy,
And look on riches with untainted eye.
To others let the glitt'ring baubles fall,
Content fhall place us* far above them all.
Spectators only on this bustling stage,
We fee what vain designs mankind engage;
Vice after vice with ardour they pursue,
And one old folly brings forth twenty new.
Perplex'd with trifles, thro' the vale of life,
Man ftrives 'gainst man, without a † cause for ftrife;

* Well may the poet say,

Defire not riches, they bewitch,

Contentment makes the poor man rich,

Multa petentibus defunt multa.

Hor.

How many are the troubles men wilfully draw upon them

felves, which they might eafily avoid, if they were but thoughtful, prudent, humble and contented!

Armies embattled meet, and thousands bleed,
For fome vile fpot, which cannot fifty feed.
Squirrels for nuts contend; and, wrong or right,
For the world's empire kings ambitious fight.
What odds?—To us 'tis all the self-same thing,
A nut, a world, a squirrel, and a king.

Britons, like Roman fpirits fam'd of old,
Are caft by Nature in a patriot mould;
No private joy, no private grief they know,
Their foul's engrofs'd by public weal or woe.
Inglorious eafe, like ours, they greatly scorn:
Whilft cares with nobler wreaths their brows adorn.
Gladly they toil beneath the statesman's pains,
Give them but credit for a statesman's brains.
All would be deem'd, e'en from the cradle, fit
To rule in politics as well as wit.

The grave, the gay, the fopling, and the dunce,
Start up (God bless us!) statesmen * all at once.

His mighty charge of fouls the priest forgets,
The court-bred lord his promises and † debts;
Soldiers their fame, mifers forget their pelf,
The rake his mistress, and the fop himself;
Whilft thoughts of higher moment claim their care,
And their wife heads the weight of kingdoms bear.
Females themselves the glorious ardour feel,
And boast an equal, or a greater zeal;

From nymph to nymph the state infection flies,
Swells in her breast, and sparkles in her eyes.

* The rage for politics among all ranks of people, especially in London, is here justly reprehended.

+ This is a melancholy truth, and too frequently verified, to the ruin of many an honest and industrious tradesman.

O'er