EPISTLE III.

то

ALLEN, LORD BATHURST.

ARGUMENT.

Of the Ufe of RICHES.

THAT it is known to few, most falling into one of the extremes, avarice or profufion, ver. 1. &c. The point difcuffed, whether the invention of money has been more commodious or pernicious to mankind, v. 21 to 77. That riches, either to the avaricious or the prodigal, cannot afford happiness, fcarcely neceffaries, v. 89 to 160. That avarice is an abfolute phrenzy, without an end or purpose, v. 113, &c. 152. Conjectures about the motives of avaricious men, v. 121 to 153. That the conduct of men, with respect to riches, can only be accounted for by the ORDER OF PROVIDENCE, which works the general good out of extremes, and brings all to its great end by perpetual revolutions, ver. 161 to 178. How a mifer acts upon principles which appear to him reasonable, verse 179. How a prodigal does the fame, v. 199. The due medium, and true use of riches, v. 219. The Man of Ross, v. 250. The

fate of the profuse and the covetous, in two examples; both miferable in life and in death, v. 300, &c. The story of Sir Balaam, v. 339 to the end.

P. HO fhall decide, when Doctors difagree,

And foundest Casuists doubt, like you and me!
You hold the word, from Jove to Momus given,
That Man was made the standing jest of Heaven;
And gold but fent to keep the fools in play,
For fome to heap, and fome to throw away.

But I, who think more highly of our kind,
(And furely, Heaven and I are of a mind)
Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound,
Deep hid the fhining mifchief under ground:
But when by man's audacious labour won,
Flam'd forth this rival to, its fire, the fun,
Then careful Heaven fupply'd two forts of men,
To fquander thefe, and those to hide agen.

Like Doors thus, when much dispute has past,
We find our tenets just the fame at last.
Both fairly owning, Riches, in effect,
No grace of Heaven or token of th' Elect;
Given to the Fool, the Mad, the Vain, the Evil,
To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the Devil.

B. What Nature wants, commodious gold bestows, "Tis thus we eat the bread another fows.

P. But how unequal it beftows, obferve,
"Tis thus we riot, while, who fow it, ftarve:
What nature wants (a phrase I much diftruft)
Extends to luxury, extends to luft:

Useful, I grant, it ferves what life requires,
But dreadful too, the dark Affaffin hires:

B. Trade it may help, fociety extend:

P. But lures the Pyrate, and corrupts the Friend.
B. It raises armies in a Nation's aid:

P. But bribes a Senate, and the Land's betray'd. In vain may heroes fight, and patriots rave; If fecret gold fap on from knave to knave. Once, we confefs, beneath the Patriot's cloak, From the crack'd bag the dropping Guinea fpoke, And jingling down the back-stairs, told the crew, Old Cato is as great a rogue as you." Bleft paper credit! last and best supply! That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly! Gold imp'd by thee, can compass hardest things, Can pocket States, can fetch or carry Kings; A fingle leaf fhall waft an Army o'er, Or fhip off Senates to fome distant Shore; A leaf, like Sibyl's, fcatter to and fro Our fates and fortunes, as the wind fhall blow: Pregnant with thousands flits the Scrap unfeen, And filent fells a King, or buys a Queen.

Oh! that fuch bulky Bribes as all might fee, Still, as of old, incumber'd Villainy ! Could France or Rome divert our brave defigns, With all their brandies, or with all their wines? What could they more than Knights and 'Squires conOr water all the Quorum ten miles round? [found, A ftatefman's flumbers how this speech would spoil!

66

Sir, Spain has fent a thousand jars of oil;

"Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door; "A hundred oxen at your levee roar.”

Poor Avarice one torment more would find;
Nor could Profusion squander all in kind.
Aftride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet;
And Worldly crying coals from street to street,
Whom with a wig fo wild, and mien fo maz'd,
Pity mistakes for some poor tradefman craz'd.
Had Colepepper's whole wealth been hops and hogs,
Could he himself have sent it to the dogs?
His Grace will game: to White's a Bull be led,
With spurning heels and with a butting head;
To White's be carry'd, as to ancient games,
Fair Courfers, Vafes, and alluring Dames.
Shall then Uxorio, if the stakes he sweep,
Bear home fix Whores, and make his Lady weep?
Or foft Adonis, fo perfum'd and fine,

Drive to St. James's a whole herd of fwine?
Oh filthy check on all industrious skill,

To spoil the nation's last great trade, Quadrille!
Since then, my Lord, on fuch a World we fall,
What fay you? B. Say? Why take it, Gold and all.
P. What Riches give us let us then enquire;
Meat, Fire, and Cloaths. B. What more? P. Meat,
Cloaths and Fire.

Is this too little? would you more than live?
Alas! 'tis more than Turner finds they give.
Alas! 'tis more than (all his visions past)
Unhappy Wharton, waking, found at last!
What can they give? to dying Hopkins, Heirs;
To Chartres, Vigour; Japhet, Nose and Ears?

Can they, in gems bid Pallid Hippia glow,
In Fulvia's Buckle cafe the throbs below;
Or heal, old Narfes thy obfcener ail,
With all the embroidery plaister'd at thy tail?
They might (were Harpax not too wife to spend)
Give Harpax' felf the bleffing of a Friend;
Or find fome Doctor that would fave the life
Of wretched Shylock, fpite of Shylock's Wife :
But thousands die, without or this or that,
Die, and endow a College, or a Cat.

To fome, indeed, Heaven grants the happier fate,
T'enrich a Baftard, or a Son they hate.

Perhaps you think the Poor might have their part, Bond damns the poor, and hates them from his heart: The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule That every man in want is knave or fool:

GOD cannot love (fays Blunt, with tearlefs eyes) "The wretch he ftarves"--and pioufly denies : But the good Bishop with a meeker air, Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care.

Yet to be just to these poor men of pelf, Each does but hate his neighbour as himself: Damn'd to the Mines, an equal fate betides The Slave that digs it, and the Slave that hides. B. Who fuffer thus, mere Charity should own, Muft act on motives powerful, tho' unknown.

P. Some war, fome plague, or famine they forefee, Some Revelation hid from you and me. Why Shylock wants a meal, the caufe is found, He thinks a Loaf will rife to fifty pound.