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Nay, it holds Delia from a fecond bed,

Tho' her lov'd lord has four half months been dead.
This paffion with a pimple have I seen
Retard a caufe, and give a judge the spleen.
By this infpir'd (O! ne'er to be forgot)

Some lords have learnt to spell, and fome to knot.
It makes globofe a speaker in the house;

He hems, and is deliver'd of his mouse.

It makes dear felf on well-bred tongues prevail,
And I the little hero of each tale.

Sick with the love of Fame what throngs pour in,
Unpeople court, and leave the fenate thin?
My growing fubject feems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.
Aid me, great Homer! with thy Epic rules,
To take a catalogue of British fools.

Satire! had I thy Dorfet's force divine,
A knave, or fool, fhould perish in each line;
Tho', for the first, all Weftminster should plead,
And, for the laft, all Grefham intercede.

Begin. Who first the catalogue fhall grace?
To Quality belongs the highest place.

My lord comes forward; forward let him come !
Ye vulgar! at your peril give him room;
He ftands for Fame on his forefather's feet,
By heraldry prov'd valiant, or difcreet.
With what a decent pride he throws his eyes
Above the man by three defcents less wife?
If virtues at his noble hand you crave,
You bid him raise his fathers from the grave,

Men

Men fhould prefs forward in Fame's glorious chace, Nobles look backward, and fo lose the race.

Let high birth triumph! What can be more great ? Nothing but Merit in a low estate.

To Virtue's humbleft fon let none prefer
Vice, tho' defcended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pass for high or base,
Slight, or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of honeft men, and wife;
The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lies.

They that on glorious ancestors inlarge,
Produce their debt, inftead of their difcharge.
Dorfet, let thofe who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary, shine.

Vain as falfe greatnefs is, the muse must own
We want not fools to buy that Bristol stone.
Mean fons of Earth, who, on a South-Sea tide
Of full fuccefs, fwam into Wealth and Pride,
Knock with a purfe of gold at Anftis' gate,
And beg to be defcended from the great.

When men of infamy to grandeur foar,
They light a torch to fhew their fhame the more.
Thofe governments which curb not evils, cause;
And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

Belus with folid glory will be crown'd ;
He buys no phantom, no vain, empty found,
But builds himfelf a name; and, to be great,
Sinks in a quarry an immense estate;
In coft and grandeur Chandos he'll out-do,
And, Burlington, thy tafte is not fo true.

The

The pile is finish'd, ev'ry toil is paft,
And full perfection is arriv'd at last;

When, lo! my lord to fome small corner runs,
And leaves ftate-rooms to ftrangers and to duns.
The man who builds and wants wherewith to pay,
Provides a home from which to run away.
In Britain what is many a lordly feat,

But a discharge in full for an estate ?

In fmaller compass lies Pygmalion's fame;
Not domes, but antick statues are his flame.
Not F-t-n's felf more Parian charms has known;
Nor is good Pembroke more in love with stone.
The bailiffs come (rude men, prophanely bold!)
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.

"No, firs," he cries, "I'll fooner rot in jail!
"Shall Grecian arts be truckt for English bail ?”
Such heads might make their very bufto's laugh.
His daughter ftarves, but Cleopatra's fafe.
Men overloaded with a large estate,

May fpill their treasure in a nice conceit;

The rich may be polite; but oh! 'tis fad

To fay you're curious, when we fwear you're mad,
By your revenue measure your expence,
And to your funds and acres join your sense;
No man is bleft by accident or guess;
True wisdom is the price of happiness:
Yet few, without long difcipline, are fage,
And our youth only lays up fighs for age.

But how, my mufe, can't thou refuse so long
The bright temptation of the courtly throng,

Thy

Thy moft inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for Satire, it abounds in lords.
"What lords are thofe faluting with a grin?"
One is juft out, and one is lately in.

“How comes it, then, to pass, we see prefide,
"On both their brows, an equal share of pride?”
Pride, that impartial paffion, reigns thro' all,
Attends our glory, nor deserts our fall.

As in its home, it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in disgrace.

Some lords it bids admire their wands so white,
Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravisht fight;
Some lords it bids resign, and turns their wands,
Like Mofes', into ferpents in their hands.

These fink, as divers, for renown! and boast

With pride inverted, of their honours loft.
But against Reason, fure, 'tis equal fin,
To boast of merely being out, or in.

What numbers, here, thro' odd ambition, flrive
To feem the moft tranfported things alive?
As if by joy defert was understood,

And all the fortunate were wife, or good.
Hence aching bofoms wear a visage gay,
And ftifled groans frequent the ball, and play.
Compleatly drefs'd by Monteuel, and grimace,
They take their birth-day fuit, and public face;
Their fmiles are only part of what they wear,
Put off at night with lady B- 's hair.
What bodily fatigue is half fo bad?
With anxious care they labour to be glad.

What

What numbers, here, would into Fame advance,
Confcious of merit in the coxcomb's dance?
The tavern! park! affembly! mafk! and play!
Thofe dear deftroyers of the tedious day!
That wheel of fops! that Santer of the town;
Call it Diverfion, and the pill goes down;
Fools grin on fools, and, Stoic-like, support,
Without one figh, the pleasures of a court.
Courts can give nothing to the wife, and good,
But fcorn of pomp, and love of folitude.
High ftations tumults, but not blifs, create;
None think the great unhappy, but the great;
Fools gaze, and envy; Envy darts a sting,
Which makes a fwain as wretched as a king.
I envy none their pageantry and show;
I envy none the gilding of their woe.

Give me, indulgent gods! with mind ferene,
And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene.
No fplendid poverty, no smiling care,
No well-bred hate, or fervile grandeur there;
There pleafing objects useful thoughts suggest,
The sense is ravisht and the soul is bleft;
On every thorn delightful Wisdom grows,
In ev'ry rill a fweet inftruction flows;

But fome, untaught, o'erhear the whisp'ring rill,
In spite of facred Leifure blockheads still;
Nor fhoots up Folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native foil, the Drawing-room.
The fquire is proud to fee his courfer ftrain,
Or well-breath'd beagles fweep along the plain.

Say,

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