With much ado, his book before him laid,' And parchment with the fmoother fide display'd; He takes the papers; lays them down again; And, with unwilling fingers, tries the pen : Some peevish quarrel ftreight he strives to pick; His quill writes double, or his ink's too thick ; Infufe more water; now 'tis grown fo thin

It finks, nor can the characters be seen.

O wretch, and ftill more wretched every day! Are mortals born to fleep their lives away?

Go back to what thy infancy began,

Thou who wert never meant to be a man:
Eat pap and spoon-meat; for thy gewgaws cry:
Be fullen, and refuse the lullaby.

No more accufe thy pen: but charge the crime
On native floth, and negligence of time.

Think'st thou thy mafter, or thy friends, to cheat?
Fool, 'tis thyself, and that's a worse deceit.
Beware the public laughter of the town;
Thou fpring't a leak already in thy crown.
A flaw is in thy ill bak'd vessel found;
'Tis hollow, and returns, a jarring found.

Yet, thy moist clay is pliant to command;
Unwrought, and eafy to the potter's hand :
Now take the mold; now bend thy mind to feel
The first sharp motions of the forming wheel.
But thou haft land; a country-feat, fecure
By a just title; caftly furniture;

A fuming-pan thy Lares to appease :

What need of learning, when a man's at ease ?

If this be not enough to fwell thy foul,

Then please thy pride, and fearch the herald's roll,
Where thou shalt find thy famous pedigree

Drawn from the root of fome old Tuscan tree;
And thou, a thoufand off, a fool of long degree.
Who, clad in purple, canft thy cenfor greet;
And, loudly, call him coufin, in the street.
Such pageantry be to the people fhown:
There boaft they horfe's trappings, and thy own:
I know thee to thy bottom; from within
Thy fhallow center, to the utmost fkin:
Dost thou not blush to live so like a beatt,
So trim, fo diffolute, fo loosely dreft?

::

But 'tis in vain the wretch is drench'd too deep; His foul is ftupid, and his heart afleep; Fatten'd in vice; 'fo callous, and fo grofs, He fins, and fees not; fenfelefs of his lofs. Down goes the wretch at once, unfkill'd to fwim, Hopeless to bubble up, and reach the water's brim. Great Father of the Gods, when, for our crimes, Thou fend'ft fome heavy judgment on the times ; Some tyrant-king, the terror of his age, The type, and true vicegerent of thy rage;

Thus punish him: fet virtue in his fight,

}

With all her charms adorn'd, with all her graçes

bright:

But fet her diftant, make him pale to fee

His gains outweigh'd by loft felicity!

Sicilian tortures, and the brazen bull, Are emblems, rather than exprefs the full

Pray justly, to be heard: nor more defire
Than what the decencies of life require.

Learn what thou ow'ft thy country, and thy friend;
What 's requifite to spare, and what to spend:
Learn this; and after, envy not the store
Of the greas'd advocate, that grinds the poor:
Fat fees from the defended Umbrian draws;
And only gains the wealthy client's cause.
To whom the Marfians more provifion fend,
Than he and all his family can spend.
Gammons, that give a relish to the taste,
And potted fowl, and fish, come in fo fast,
That ere the firft is out, the fecond ftinks:
And mouldy mother gathers on the drinks.
But, here, fome captain of the land or fleet,
Stout of his hands, but of a soldier's wit;
Cries, I have fenfe to ferve my turn, in store;
And he's a rafcal who pretends to more.

Dammee, what-e'er those book-learn'd blockheads say,
Solon's the veryeft fool in all the play.

Top-heavy drones, and always looking down,

(As over-ballafted within the crown !)

Muttering betwixt their lips fome mystie thing,

"Which, well examin'd, is flat conjuring,

Meer madmen's dreams: for what the schools have

taught,

Is only this, that nothing can be brought

From nothing; and, what is, can ne'er be turn'd to

nought.

Is it for this they ftudy? to grow pale,
And mifs the pleasures of a glorious meal?
For this, in rags accouter'd, are they seen,
And made the may-game of the public fpleen?
Proceed, my friend, and rail; but hear me tell
A ftory, which is just thy parallel.

A fpark, like thee, of the man-killing trade,
Fell fick, and thus to his phyfician faid:
Methinks I am not right in every part;
I feel a kind of trembling at my heart:
My pulfe unequal, and my breath is ftrong;
Befides a filthy fur upon my tongue.

The doctor heard him, exercis'd his fkill:
And, after, bid him for four days be ftill.
Three days he took good counsel, and began
To mend, and look like a recovering man:

The fourth, he could not hold from drink; but fends
His boy to one of his old trusty friends :
Adjuring him, by all the powers divine,
To pity his diftrefs, who could not dine
Without a flaggon of his healing wine.
He drinks a fwilling draught; and, lin'd within,
Will fupple in the bath his outward skin :
Whom fhould he find but his physician there,
Who, wifely, bade him once again beware.

Sir, you look wan, you hardly draw your breath;
Drinking is dangerous, and the bath is death.
'Tis nothing, fays the fool: but, fays the friend,
This nothing, Sir, will bring you to your end,

Do I not fee your dropsy belly swell?

Your yellow fkin ?—No more of that; I'm well.
I have already bury'd two or three

That ftood betwixt a fair eftate and me,

And, doctor, I may live to bury thee.

Thou tell'ft me, I look ill; and thou look'ft worse.
I've done, says the physician; take your course.
The laughing fot, like all unthinking men,

Bathes and gets drunk; then bathes and drinks again:
His throat half throttled with corrupted phlegm,
And breathing through his jaws a belching steam :
Amidft his cups with fainting skivering feiz'd,
His limbs disjointed, and all o'er diseas'd,
His hand refufes to fuftain the bowl:

And his teeth chatter, and his eye-balls roll:
Till, with his meat, he vomits out his foul:
Then trumpets, torches, and a tedious crew
Of hireling mourners, for his funeral due.
Our dear departed brother lies in state,

His heels ftretch'd out, and pointing to the gate :
And flaves, now manumiz'd, on their dead master

wait.

They hoift him on the bier, and deal the dole::
And there's an end of a luxurious fool.
But what's thy fulfome parable to me?
My body is from all diseases free :
My temperate pulfe does regularly beat;
Feel, and be fatisfy'd, my hands and feet :
Thefe are not cold, nor thefe oppreft with heat.

}

}

Or