Tir'd of the scene Parterres and Fountains yield,
He finds, at laft, he better likes a field.

Thro' his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus

Aray'd,

Or fat delighted in the thick'ning shade,
With annual joy the red ning fhoots to greet,
Or fee the stretching branches long to meet!
His fon's fine Taste an op❜ner Vista loves,
Foe to the Dryads of his Father's groves;
One-boundless green §, or flourifh'd carpet views,
With all the mournful family of Yews I;

The thriving plants ignoble broomsticks made,
Now sweep thofe Alleys they were born to fhade.
At Timon's Villa let us pass a day,

Where all cry out, "What fums are thrown away!”
So proud, fo grand; of that ftupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.

Greatness, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.

§ The two extremes in parterre, which are equally faulty; a boundless green, large and naked as a field; or as a flourished carpet, where the greatness and nobleness of the piece is leffened by being divided into too many parts, with fcrolled works and beds; of which the examples are frequent.

Touches upon the ill taste of those who are fo fond of evergreens, (particularly yews, which are the most tonfile) as to deftroy the nobler forest trees, to make way for fuch little ornaments as pyramids of dark green, continually repeated; not unlike a funeral proceffion.

Та

To compass this, his Building is a Town,
His Pond an Ocean, his Parterre a Down:
Who but must laugh the mafter when he fees,
A puny infect, shiv'ring at a breeze-!·

Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground.
Two Cupids squirt before: a Lake behind
Improves the keennefs of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On ev'ry fide you look, behold the Wall!
No pleafing Intricacies intervene,

No artful wildnefs to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at 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;
And there a Summer-houfe, that knows no fhade g
Here Amphitrite fails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There Gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs;
Unwater'd, fee the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dufty Urn.

My Lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be feen;
But foft-by regular approach-not yet-
First thro' the length of yon hot terrace sweat ;

The two ftatues of the Gladiator Pugnans, and Gladiator Moriens.

And when up ten fteep flopes you've dragg'd your

thighs,

Juft at his Study-door he'll bless your eyes.
His Study! with what Authors is it stor❜d ?
In Books; not Authors, curious is my Lord:
To all their dated backs he turns you round';
These Aldus printed, those Du Sueïl has bound.
Lo fome are Vellom, and the rest as good
For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood.
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
Thefe Shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the Chapel's filver bell you hear,
That fummons you to all the Pride of Pray'r:
Light quirks of Mufic, broken and uneven,
Make the foul dance upon a Jig to Heav'n.
On painted Ceilings you devoutly stare,
Where fprawl the Saints of § Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expanfion lie,
And bring all Paradife before your eye.
To reft, the Cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions || Hell to ears polite.

But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call
A hundred footsteps fcrape the marble Hall:'

§ Verrio (Antonio) painted many cielings, &c. at Windfor, Hampton-court, &c. and Laguerre, at Blenheim-castle, and other places.

This is a fact; a reverend dean preaching at court, threatened the finner with punishment, "in a place which he thought it not decent to name before fo polite an affembly."

The

The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face,
Is this a dinner? this a genial room * ?
No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
A folemn Sacrifice, perform'd in state,
You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.

So quick retires each flying courfe, you'd fwear
Sancho's + dread Doctor and his Wand were there.
Between each A&t the trembling falvers ring,
From foup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty ftarving, tantaliz'd in state,

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 cost, and little skill,
And fwear no day was ever past so ill.

Yet hence the poor are cloath'd, the hungry fed;
Health to himself, and to his infants bread
The Lab'rer bears: what his hard heart denies,
His charitable Vanity fupplies.

Another age fhall fee the golden Ear

Imbrown the slope, and nod on the Parterre,
Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-affume the land.

*The proud festivals of fome men are here fet forth to ridicule, where the pride deftroys the ease, and the formal regularity all the pleasurable enjoy

ment of the entertainment.

† See Don Quixote, vol. iv. chap. 6.
L 3

Who,

Who, then, fhall grace, or who improve the Soil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle? 'Tis ufe, alone, that fanctifies Expence,

And Splendor borrows all her rays from Senfe.

His Father's Acres who enjoys in peace,

Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he encreafe:
Whofe chearful Tenants bless their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the foil;
Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deferving steed;
Whofe rifing forefts, nor for pride or fhow,
But future Building, future Navies, grow:
Let his plantations ftretch 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 themfelves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
'Till Kings call forth th' ideas of your mind ‡,
(Proud to accomplish what fuch hands defign'd)

Bid

The poet, after having touched upon the proper objects of magnificence and expence in the private works of great men, comes to thofe great and public works which become a prince. This poem was published at the time when fome of the new churches, built by the act of queen Anne, were ready to fall, being founded on boggy land; and others vilely executed, through fraudulent cabals between undertakers, officers, &c. when Dagenham

breach