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That fecret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love.

B. To Worth or Want well-weigh'd, be Bounty given, And eafe, or emulate, the care of Heaven;

(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race)


Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace.
Wealth in the grofs is death, but life diffus'd;
As poifon heals, in just proportion us'd:
In heaps, like Ambergris, a stink it lies,
But well difpers'd, is incense to the Skies.



P. Who ftarves by Nobles, or with Nobles eats? The Wretch that trufts them, and the Rogue that cheats. Is there a Lord, who knows a chearful noon Without a Fiddler, Flatterer, or Buffoon? Whose table, Wit, or modest Merit share, Un-elbow'd by a Gamefter, Pimp, or Player? Who copies Your's, or Oxford's better part, To ease th' opprefs'd, and raise the finking heart? Where'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene, And Angels guard him in the golden Mean! There, English Bounty yet a while may ftand, And Honour linger ere it leaves the land.


But all our praises why fhould Lords engrofs? Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing the MAN of Ross: 250


After ver. 250, in the MS,

Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's fhore,
Who fings not him, oh may he fing no more!



Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarfe applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the fkies in ufelefs columns toft,,

Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and artlefs, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain.
Whose Causeway parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whofe feats the weary Traveller repofe?



Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
"The MAN of Ross," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the Market-place with poor o'erspread!
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon Alms-house, neat, but void of state, 265.
Where Age and Want fit smiling at the gate;
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any fick? the MAN of Ross relieves,
Prefcribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. 270
Is there a variance? enter but his door,

Balk'd are the Courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing Quacks with curfes fled the place,
And vile Attorneys, now an useless race.

B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all fo wish, but want the power to do!
Oh fay, what fums that generous hand supply?
What mines to fwell that boundless charity?


P. Of Debts and Taxes, Wife and Children clear, This man poffeft-five hundred pounds a-year.



Blufh, Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your


Ye little Stars! hide your diminish'd rays.

B. And what? no monument, infscription, stone? His race, his form, his name almost unknown?

P. Who builds a Church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his Name: Go, fearch it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history; Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between ; Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been. When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch, who living fav'd a candle's end; Shouldering God's altar a vile image ftands, Belies his features, nay extends his hands;


That live-long wig, which Gorgon's felf might own, Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.

Behold what bleffings Wealth to life can lend!

And fee, what comfort it affords our end.

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,
The floors of plaifter, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw,



Ver. 287. Thus in the MS.

The Register inrolls him with his Poor,

Tells he was born, and dy'd, and tells no more.
Just as he ought, he fill'd the Space between;
Then stole to reft, unheeded and unfeen.




The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow ftrove wirh dirty red,

Great Villers lies-alas! how chang'd from him, 305
That life of Pleasure, and that foul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and Love;
Or just as gay, at Council, in a ring

Of mimick'd Stateímen, and their merry King.
No Wit to flatter, left of all his store!


No Fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And Fame, this lord of useless thousands ends.
His Grace's fate fage Cutler could foresee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, "Live like me!"
As well his Grace reply'd, " Like you,
Sir John?
"That I can do, when all I have is gone."
Refolve me, Reafon, which of these are worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purse?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confefs'd,
Arife, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd?
Cutler faw tenants break, and houses fall,



For very want; he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a ftranger's power,


For very want; he could not pay a dower.

A few grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd,

'Twas very want that fold them for two pound.
What! even deny'd a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the Doctor, and expell'd the friend?
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had!



Cutler and Brutus dying, both exclaim,

"Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name!"
Say, for fuch worth are other worlds prepar'd? 335
Or are they both, in this, their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tir'd-I'll tell a tale—B. Agreed.
P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;
There dwelt a Citizen of fober fame,

A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and fo forth;

His word would pass for more than he was worth.
One folid dish his week-day meal affords,

An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's:



Conftant at Church, and Change; his gains were fure, His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.

The Devil was piqu'd fuch faintship to behold,
And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old; 350
But Satan now is wifer than of yore,

And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Rouz'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds fweep
The furge, and plunge his Father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,
And two rich shipwrecks blefs the lucky fhore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes:


Ver. 337. In the former Editions,

That knotty point, my Lord, shall I discuss,
Or tell a tale ?-A Tale-It follows thus.


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