Who copies Your's, or Oxford's better part,
To cafe th' opprefs'd, and raise the finking heart?
Where'er he fhines, oh Fortune, gild the fcene,
Ad Angels guard him in the golden Mean!
There, English bounty yet a while may stand,
And Honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praises why should Lords engross?
Rife honeft Mufe! and fing the MAN of Ross: 250
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the swain.
Whose Causeway parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whofe feats the weary Traveller repofe?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rife?
"The MAN of Ross," each lifping babe replies.
Behold the Market place with poor o'erfpread !
The MAN of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon Alms-house, neat, but void of state,
265
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow ftrove with dirty red,
Great Villers lies-alas! how chang'd from him, 305
That life of Pleafure, and that foul of whim!.
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and Love;
Or juft as gay, at Council, in a ring
Of mimick Statesmen, 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 ufelefs thousands ends.
His Grace's fate fage Cutler could foresee, 315
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 bave is gone."
Refolve me, Reafon, which of these are worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purfe?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confefs'd,
Arife and tell me, was thy death more blefs'd?
Cutler faw tenants break, and houfes fall,
For very want; he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger'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; 330
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
270 Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had!
Cutler and Brutus dying, both exclaim,
Where Age and Want fit fmiling at the gate;
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick? the MAN of Ross relieves,
Prefcribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more.
Defpairing Quacks with curfes fled the place,
And vile Attorneys, now an useless race.
B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all fo wifh, but want the power to do!
Oh fay, what fums that generous hand supply?
What mines to fwell that boundiefs charity?
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?
275 A knotty point to which we now proceed.
But you are tir'd-I'll tell a tále-B. Agreed.
P. Of Debts and Taxes, Wife and Children clear, This man poffeft-five hundred pounds a year. 280 Blush, Grandeur, bluth! proud Courts, withdraw your blaze!
Ye little Stars! hide your diminish'd rays.
B. And what? no monument, infcription, ftone?
His race, his form, his name almost unknown? 285
P. Who builds a Church to God, and not to Fame,|
Will never mark the marble with his Name:
Go, fearch it there, were to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the hiftory;
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 stands,
Belies his features, nay extends his hands;
That live long wig, which Gorgon's felf might own,
295
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,
P. Where London's column, pointing to the skies
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; 340
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 difh 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 piqued such saintship 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, 335
And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky fhore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,'
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes:
"Live like yourfelf," was foon my Lady's word;
And lo! two puddings fmoak'd upon the board, 360
Afleep and naked as an Indian lay,
An honest factor ftole a Gem away:
He pledg'd it to the knight, the knight had wit,
So kept the Diamond, and the rogue was bit.
A Nymph of Quality admires our Knight; 385
He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite:
Leaves the dull Cits, and joins to pleafe the Fair)
The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air :
Firft, for his Son a gay Commiffion buys,
Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies: 390
His Daughter flaunts a Vifcount's tawdry wife;
She bears a Coronet and P-x for life."
In Britain's Senate he a feat obtains,
And one more Penfioner St. Stephen gains.
My Lady falls to play. fo bad her chance,
He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;
The Houfe impeach him, Coningsby harangues;
The Court forfake him, and Sir Balaam hangs:
Wife, fon, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown:
The Devil and the King divide the prize,
And fad Sir Balaam curfes God and dies.
mere Luxury and Elegance. Inflanced in Archi tecture and Gardening, where all must be adapted to the Genius and Ufe of the Place, and, the Beauties not forced into it, but refulting from it, ver. 50. How men are disappointed in their most expenfive undertakings, fon want of this true Foundation, without which nothing can please long, 'if at all; and the beft Examples and rules will be but perverted into fomething burthenfome and ridiculous, ver. 65, &c. to 92. A defcription of the falfe Tafte of Magnificence; the firft grand error of which is, to imagine that Greatness confifts in the Size and Dimenfion, inAead of the Proportion and Harmony of the whole, ver. 97. and the fecond, either in joining together Parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the Repetition of the fame too frequently, ver. 105, &c. A word or two of falfe Tafte in Books, in Mufic, and in Painting, even in Preaching and Prayer and lafly in Entertainments, ver. 133, &c. Yet PROVIDENCE is juftified in giving Wealth to be fquandered in this manner, fince it is dispersed to the Poor and Laborieus part of mankind, ver. 169. [recurring to what is laid down in the firft Book, Ep. ii. and in the Epifle preceding this, ver. 159, &c.] What are the proper objets of Magnificence, and a proper field for the Expenje of Great Men, ver. 177, e. and finally the Great and Public Works which become a Prince, ver. 191, to the end.
IS ftrange, the Miser should his cares employ
To gain thofe riches he can ne'er enjoy:
Is it lefs ftrange, the Prodigal should wafte
Mis wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste?
Not for himfelf he fees, or hears, or eats;
Artists must choose his Pictures, Mufic, Meats:
He buys for Topham Drawings and Defigns;
For Pembroke Statues, dirty Gods, and Coins;
Rare Monkish Manufcripts for Hearne alone,
And Books for Mead, and Butterflies for Sloane, ro
Think we all thefe are for himself? no more
Than his fine Wife, alas! or finer Whore.
For what has Virro painted, built, and planted ?
Only to fhew, how many taites he wanted.
What brought Sir Vifto's ill-got Wealth to waste ?
15
Some Dæmon whisper'd, " Vifto! have a Tafte.”
Heaven vifits with a Tafte the wealthy Fool,
And needs no Rod but Ripley with a Rule.
See! fportive Fate to punish awkward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and fends him fuch a Guide: 20
RICHARD BOYLE EARL OF BURLINGTON. A ftanding fermon, at each year's expenfe,
That never Coxcomb reach'a Magnificence!
You fhow us, Rome was glorious, 1 ot profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of Ufe. Yet hall (my Lord) your just, your noble rules 25 Fill half the land with imitating Fools; Who random drawings from your sheets shall take, The Vanity of Expense in People of Wealth and Qua- And of one beauty many blunders make; lity. The abuse of the word Tafte, ver. 13. That Load fome vain Church with old Theatric state, the first principle and foundation in this, as in Turn Arts of triumph to a Garden gate: every thing eife, is Good Senfe, ver. 40. The chief Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all proof of it is to follow Nature, even in works of On fome patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall;
One boundlefs Green, or flourish'd Carpet views, 95
With all the mournful family of Yews:
35 The thriving plants ignoble broomsticks made,
Now fweep thofe Alleys they were born to fhade.
At Timon's Villa let us pafs a day,
Then clap four flices of Pilafter on 't,
That, lac'd with bits of ruftic, makes a Front.
Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;
Confcious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they ftarve, they starve by rules of art.
Oft have you hinted to your brother Peer,
A certain truth, which many buy too dear.
Something there is more needful than Expense,
And fomething previous ev'n to Tafte-'tis Senfe:
Good Senfe, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And, though no Science, fairly worth the feven:
A bight, which in yourself you must perceive;
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.
To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend,
To fwell the Terras, or to fink the Grot;
In all, let Nature never be forgot.
But treat the Goddess like a modeft fair,
Nor over-drefs, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,
Where half the kill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,
Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds.
Where all cry out, "What fums are thrown away!"
So proud, fo grand; of that stupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatnefs, with Timon, dweils in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought
To compafs this, his Building is a Town,
His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down:
Who but muft laugh, the Master when he fees,
A puny infect, shivering at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground,
Two Cupids fquirt before: a Lake behind
so Improves thennefs of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On every fide you look, behold the Wail!
No pleafing Intricacies intervene,
No artful Wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods a: grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform juft reflects the other.
The fuffering eye inverted Nature fees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees;
With here a Fountain, never to be play'd;
60 And there a Summer-house that knows no fhade;
Here Amphitrite fails through myrtle bowers:
There Gladiators fight, or die in flowers;
Unwater'd fee the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dusty Urn.
Confult the Genius of the Place in all:
That tells the Waters or to rife, or fall;
Or helps th' ambitious Hill the heavens to fcale,
Or fcoops in circling theatres the Vale;
Calls-in the country, catches opening glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies fhades from fhades;
Now breaks, or now directs th' intending Lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.
Still follow Sense, of every Art the Soul,
Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from Difficulty, ftrike from Chance;
Nature hall join you; Time fhall make it grow
A Work to wonder at-perhaps a STow.
Without it, proud Verfailles! thy glory falls;
And Nero's Terraces defert their walls:
The vast Parterres a thousand hands fhall make,
Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a Lake:
Or cut wide views through mountains to
Plain,
You'll with your hill or shelter'd feat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
Nor in an Hermitage fet Dr. Clarke.
Behold Villario's ten years toil complete;
His Quincunx darkens, his Efpaliers meet;
The wood fupports the Plain, the parts unite,
And strength of Shade contends with ftrength
Light;
A waving Glow the bloomy beds dúplay,
Blufhing in bright diversities of day,
With filver-quivering rills mæander'd o'er-
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more;
Tir'd of the fcene Parterres and Fountains yield,
He finds at laft he better likes a Field.
My Lord advances with majeffic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen:
But foft-by regular approach-not yet-
Firft through the length of yon hot Terrace fweat;
And when up ten steep flopes you've dragg'd your
thighs,
Juft at his Study door he'll blefs your eyes.
His Study! with what Authors is it ftor"d?
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round; 135
Thefe Aldus printed, thofe Du Sueil has bound.
Lo, fome are Vellom, and the reit as good
For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood.
For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look,
Thefe fhelves admit not any modern book.
And now the Chapel's filver bell you hear,
80 That fummons you to all the Pride of Prayer:
Light quirks of Mufic, broken and uneven,
of Make the foul dance upon a jig to Heaven.
On painted Cielings you devoutly stare,
Where fprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
85 And bring all Paradife before your eye.
To reft, the Cushion and foft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to cars polite.
Through his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus
ftray'd,
Or fate delighted in the thickening fhade,
With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet,
Or fee the ftretching branches long to meet!
His Son's fine Taste an opener Vista loves,
Foc to the Dryads of his Father's groves;
But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps fcrape the marble Hall:
The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
go And gaping Tritons fpew to wash their face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
A folemn Sacrifice perform'd in flate,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying courfe, you'd swear
Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there. 160
Between each Act the trembling faivers ring,
From foup to fweet-wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty ftarving, tantaliz'd in ftate,
And complaifantly help'd to all I hate,
Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curfe fuch lavish coft, and little skill,
And fwear no day was ever paft fo ill.
Huge Theatres, that now unpeopled Woods,
Now drain'd a difant country of her Floods:
Fanes, which admiring Gods with pride furvey;
165 Statues of Men, fcarce lefs alive than they!
Some felt the filent ftroke of mouldering age,
Some hoftile fury, fome religious rage.
Barbarian blindness, Chriftian zeal confpire,
Yet hence the poor are cloath'd, the hungry fed; And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
Health to himself, and to his infants bread,
170 Perhaps, by its own ruins fav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble halt preferves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce difputes purfue,
And give to Titus old Vefpafian's due.
The labourer bears: What his hard heart denies,
His charitable vanity fupplies.
Another age fhall fee the golden ear
Imbrown the flope, and ned on the parterre,
Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-affume the land.
Who then fhall grace, or who improve the foil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle. 'Tis ufe alone that fanctifies expenfe,
And fplendor borrows all her rays from fenfe.
His Father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he increase:
Whofe chearful tenants blefs their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the foil;
Whofe ample lawns are not afham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deferving steed;
Whole ring forefts, not for pride or fhow,
But future buildings, future navies, grow:
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First shade a country, and then raise a town.
You too proceed! make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
Ambition figh'd: fhe found it vain to trust
The faithlefs column, and the crumbling buft:
Huge moles, whose shadow ftretch'd from fhore to
shore,
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more! Convinc'd the now contracts her vast design, 180 And all her triumphs fhrink into a coin.
Till Kings call forth th'Ideas of your mind,
(Proud to accomplish what fuch hands defign'd)
Bid Harbours open, public Ways extend,
Bid Temples worthier of the God afcend;
Bid the Broad Arch the dangerous food contain,
The Mole projected break the roaring Main;
Back to his bounds their fubject fea command,
And roll obedient rivers through the land;
These honours, peace to happy Britain brings;
These are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings.
A narrow orb each crouded conqueft keeps,
Beneath her palm here fad Judea weeps.
Now feantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the proftrate Nile or Rhine;
A fmall Euphrates through the piece is roil'd,
And little Eagles wave their wings in gold.
The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Through climes and ages beats each form and
In one fhort view fubjected to our eye
Gods, Emperors, Heroes, Sages, Beauties, lie.
With fharpen'd fight pale Antiquaries pore,
Th' infcription value, but the rust adore.
This the blue varnish, that the green endears,
The facred ruft of twice ten hundred years!
To gain Pefcennius one employs his schemes,
One grafps a Cecrops in extatic dreams.
Poor Vadius, long with learn'd fpleen devou 'd,
Can tafte no pleasure fince his Shield was fcour'd:
And Curio, reftlefs by the Fair-one's fide,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
Statesman, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere, "In action faithful, and in honour clear; "Who broke no romife, ferv'd no private end, Who gain'd no utle, and who loft no friend; Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd, "And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Muse he lov'd."
Seiz'd and ty'd down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lie:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace; 35
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I fit with fad civility; I read
With honeft anguish, and an aching head;
And drop at laft, but in unwilling ears,
This faving council," Keep your piece nine years."
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by foft Zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT: Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends:
P. SHUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu'd
HUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigu'd
faid,
Tye up the knocker, fay I'm fick, I'm dead.
The Dog ftar rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
Ail Bedlam, or Parnaffus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can
hide?
"The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take
Three things another's modest wishes bound, My Friendfhip, and a Prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon fends to me: "You know his Grace: "I want a Patron; afk him for a Place." Pitholeon libel'd me-" but here's a letter "Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. "Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, "He'll write a Journal, or he'll turn Divine." Blefs me! a packet.-" "Tis a ftranger fues, $5 A I" A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Mufe." If I diflike it," Furies, death and rage!" If I approve, " Commend it to the Stage." There (thank my ftars) my whole commiflion ends,
5 The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fir'd that the house reject him, "Sdeath! I'll
"print it,
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide.
Ty land, by water, they renew the charge;
"And fhame the fools-Your intereft, Sir, with
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: "Not, Sir, if you revife it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks: 10 At laft he whispers, "Do; and we go fnacks." Glad of a quarrel, ftrait I clap the door,
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is facred, not the Church is free,
Ev'n Sunday fhines no Sabbath-day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the man
rhyme,
Happy! to catch me, juft at dinner-time.
Is there a Parfon, much bemus'd in beer, A maudiin poetefs, a rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's foul to cross,
Who pens a flanze, when he fhould engros?
Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, fcrawls
with defperate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All Ay to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whofe giddy fon neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the caufe:
Poor Cornus fees his frantic wife elope,
And curfes Wit, and Poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle fong)
What drop or noftrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a Fool's wrath or love? 30
A dire dilemma! either way I'm fped;
foes, they write, if friends, they read me dead.
And is not mine, my friend, a forer cafe,
When every coxcomb perks them in my face? 75
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous
things,
I'd never name Queens, Minifters, or Kings;
Keep clofe to ears, and thofe let affes prick,
'iis nothing-P. Nothing? if they bite and kick?
Out with it, Dunciad! let the fecret pafs,
That fecret to each fool, that he's an Afs:
The truth once told (and wherefore fhould we
lie?)
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