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Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your


Ye little Stars! hide your diminish'd rays.

B. And what? no monument, infcription, ftone? His race, his form, his name almost unknown?


P. Who builds a Church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his Name: Go, fearch it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history; 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, 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 plaister, and the walls of dung,

On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw,


Ver. 287. Thus in the MS.

The Regifter inrolls him with his Poor,

Tells he was born, and dy'd, and tells no more.
Juft as he ought, he fill'd the Space between ;
Then ftole to rest unheeded and unfeen.

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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 just as gay, at Council, in a ring

Of mimick'd 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 useless thousands ends.
His Grace's fate fage Cutler could forefee,
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 have is gone."


Refolve me, Reason, which of these are worse,

Want with a full, or with an empty purse?


Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confess'd,

Arife, and tell me, was thy death more blefs'd?
Cutler faw tenants break, and houses 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 gray 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?
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had!



Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim,

"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?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tir'd-I'll tell a tale—B. Agreed.
P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies
There dwelt a Citizen of fober fame,

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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 dish his week-day meal affords,

An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's:




Conftant at Church, and Change; his gains were sure,
His givings rare, fave farthings to the
The Devil was piqu'd fuch faintship to behold,
And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old:
But Satan now is wifer than of



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,
And two rich fhipwrecks bless the lucky fhore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes:




Ver. 337. In the former Editions,

That knotty point, my Lord, fhall I discuss,
Or tell a tale?-A Tale--It follows thus.

K 2

"Live like yourself," was foon my Lady's word; And lo! two puddings smoak'd upon the board. Afleep and naked as an Indian lay,

An honeft 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.
Some fcruple rofe, but thus he eas'd his thought,
"I'll now give fixpence where I gave a groat;
"Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice-
"And am fo clear too of all other vice."

The Tempter faw his time; the work he ply'd;
Stocks and Subfcriptions pour on every side,
Till all the Dæmon makes his full descent
In one abundant shower of Cent per Cent,
Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole,
Then dubs Director, and secures his foul.

Behold Sir Balaam now a man of fpirit,
Afcribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he call'd a Bleffing, now was Wit,

And God's good Providence, a lucky Hit.
Things change their titles, as our manners turn:



His Compting-house employ'd the Sunday-morn: 380 Seldom at Church, ('twas such a busy life)

But duly fent his family and wife.

There (fo the Devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide
My good old Lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd.

A Nymph of Quality admires our Knight;
He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite :
Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the Fair)
The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air:



First, for his Son a gay Commiffion buys,

Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies:
His Daughter flaunts a Viscount'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 House 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.




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