Honour and fhame from no condition rife, Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in Men has fome fmall diff'rence made, One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade; The cobler apron'd, and the parfon gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. "What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl?” I'll tell you, friend; a wife man and a fool. You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobler-like, the parfon will be drunk, Worth makes the man, and want of it, the fellow; The reft is all but leather or prunella.

Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with strings, That thou may't be by kings, or whores of kings; Boaft the pure blood of an illustrious race, In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece : But by your father's worth, if yours you rate, Count me those only who were good and great. Go; if your ancient, but ignoble blood

Has crept thro' fcoundrels ever fince the flood,

and pretend your family is young;

Y your fathers have been fools fo long. “Viac can ennoble fots, or flaves, or cowards? was not all the blood of all the HowARDS.

ook next on greatnefs; fay where greatness lies, Where but among the heroes and the wife?" Merces are much the fame, the point's agreed, From Macedonia's madman to the Swede;

the whole ftrange purpose of their lives, to find Or make, an enemy of all mankind.

Not one looks backward, onward ftill he goes,
Yet ne'er looks forward further than his nose.
No lefs alike the politic and wife;

A fly flow things, with circumfpective eyes ;
Men in their loose unguarded hours they take,
Not that themfelves are wife, but others weak.
But grant that thofe can conquer, these can cheat;
Lis phrafe abfurd to call a villain great:
Who wickedly is wife, or madly brave,

but the more a fool, the more a knave.

Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
Or failing, fmiles in exile or in chains,
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed
Like Socrates, that Man is great indeed.

What's fame? a fancy'd life in other's breath, A thing beyond us, ev'n before our death. Juft what you hear, you have, and what's unknown The fame (my lord) if Tully's or your own. All that we feel of it begins and ends

In the small circle of our foes or friends;

To all befide as much an empty shade

An Eugene living, as a Cæfar dead;
Alike or when, or where, they fhone, or fhine,
Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine,

A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod;

An honeft Man's the noble work of God.
Fame but from death a villain's name can fave,
As Juftice tears his body from the grave;
When what t' oblivion better were refign'd,
Is hung on high to poison half mankind.

8

All fame is foreign, but of true defert;

Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart:
One felf-approving hour whole years outweighs
Of stupid ftarers, and of loud huzzas;

And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels,
Than Cæfar with a fenate at his heels.

In parts fuperior what advantage lies?
Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise?
"Tis but to know how little can be known:
To fee all others' faults and feel our own:

Condemn'd in bus'nefs or in arts to drudge,
Without a fecond, or without a judge.

Truths would you teach, or save a finking land
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
Painful pre-eminence! yourself to view

Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.

Bring then these bleffings to a strict account; Make fair deductions; fee to what they 'mount: How much of other each is fure to coft; How each for other oft is wholly loft;

How inconfiftent greater goods with thefe; How fometimes life is rifqu'd, and always ease: Think, and if still the things thy envy call,

Say, would'ft thou be the man to whom they fall?
To figh for ribbands if thou art fo filly,
Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy.
Is yellow dirt the paffion of thy life?
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife.
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd,
The wifeft, brighteft, meaneft of mankind :
Or ravish'd with the whistling of a name,
See Cromwell damn'd to everlasting fame !
If all, united, thy ambition call,

From ancient ftory learn to fcorn them all.
There, in the rich, the honour'd, fam'd and great,
See the falfe fcale of happiness complete!

In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay,
How happy thofe to ruin, these betray!
Mark by what wretched fteps their glory grows,
From dirt and fea-weed as proud Venice rofe.