Not always Actions fhew the man: we find Who does a kindnefs, is not therefore kind: Perhaps Profperity becalm'd his breast, Perhaps the Wind juft fhifted from the Eaft: Not therefore humble he who feeks retreat,
Pride guides his fteps, and bids him fhun the great :
Who combats bravely is not therefore brave,
He dreads a death-bed like the meanest flave:
Who reasons wifely is not therefore wife,
His pride in Reasoning, not in Acting, lies.
But grant that actions best discover man ;
Take the most strong, and fort them as you can.
The few that glare, each character must mark,
You balance not the many in the dark.
What will you do with such as difagree?
Supprefs them, or mifcall them policy?
Muft then at once (the character to fave)
The plain rough Hero turn a crafty Knave?
Alas! in truth the man but chang'd his mind,
Perhaps was fick, in love, or had not din'd.
Afk why from Britain Cæfar would retreat ?
Cæfar himself might whisper, he was beat.
Ver. 129. in the former Editions:
Afk why from Britain Cæfar made retreat ?
Cæfar himfelf would tell you he was beat.
The mighty Czar what mov'd to wed a Punk?
The mighty Czar would tell you he was drunk.
Altered as above, becaufe Cæfar wrote his Commentaries of this war, and does not tell you he was beat. As Cæfar too afforded an inftance of both cafes, it was thought better to make him the fingle example.
Why risk the World's great empire for a Punk?
Cæfar perhaps might answer, he was drunk.
But, fage hiftorians! 'tis your task to prove
One action Conduct; one, heroic Love.
'Tis from high Life high characters are drawn; 135 A Saint in Crape is twice a Saint in Lawn; A Judge is juft, a Chancellor juster still; A Gownman, learn'd; a Bishop, what you Wife, if a Minister; but, if a King,
More wife, more learn'd, more juft, more every thing.
Court-Virtues bear, like Gems, the highest rate,
Born where Heaven's influence scarce can penetrate:
In life's low vale, the foil the Virtues like,
They please as beauties, here as wonders strike.
Though the fame fun with all-diffusive rays
Blush in the Rofe, and in the Diamond blaze,
We prize the stronger effort of his power,
And justly fet the Gem above the Flower.
"Tis Education forms the common mind,
Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclin'd.
Boaftful and rough, your first son is a 'Squire;
The next a Tradesman, meek, and much a lyar;
Tom ftruts a Soldier, open, bold and brave;
Will fneaks a Scrivener, an exceeding knave:
Is he a Churchman? then he's fond of power :
A Quaker? fly: A Prefbyterian? fower:
A fmart Free-thinker? all things in an hour.
Afk mens Opinions: Scoto now fhall tell
How Trade increases, and the world goes well;
Strike off his Penfion, by the setting fun,
And Britain, if not Europe, is undone.
That gay Free-thinker, a fine talker once,
What turns him now a stupid filent dunce ?
Some God, or Spirit, he has lately found;
Or chanc'd to meet a Minifter that frown'd.
Judge we by Nature? Habit can efface,
Intereft o'ercome, or policy take place:
By Actions? those Uncertainty divides:
By Paffions? these Dissimulation hides:
Opinions? they still take a wider range :
Find, if you can, in what you cannot change.
Manners with Fortunes, Humours turn with Climes,
Tenets with Books, and Principles with Times.
Search then the Ruling Paffion: There, alone,
The Wild are conftant, and the Cunning known; 175
The Fool confiftent, and the False fincere;
Priefts, Princes, Women, no diffemblers here.
This clue once found, unravels all the reft,
The profpect clears, and Wharton stands confeft.
Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days,
Whose ruling Paffion was the Lust of Praise :
Born with whate'er could win it from the Wife,
Women and Fools must like him, or he dies:
Though wondering Senates hung on all he spoke,
The Club muft hail him master of the joke.
Shall parts fo various aim at nothing new?
He'll fhine a Tully and a Wilmot too.
Then turns repentant, and his God adores
With the fame fpirit that he drinks and whores;
Enough if all around him but admire
And now the Punk applaud, and now the Frier.
Thus with each gift of nature and of art,
And wanting nothing but an honest heart;
Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt;
And moft contemptible, to fhun contempt;
His Paffion ftill, to covet general praise;
His Life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;
A conftant Bounty which no friend has made;
An Angel Tongue, which no man can perfuade;
A Fool, with more of Wit than half mankind,
Too rafh for Thought, for Action too refin'd:
A Tyrant to the wife his heart approves ;
A Rebel to the very king he loves ;
He dies, fad outcaft of each church and state,
And, harder ftill! flagitious, yet not great.
Afk you why Wharton broke through every rule?
'Twas all for fear the Knaves fhould call him Fool.
Nature well known, no prodigies remain,
Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.
Yet, in this fearch, the wifeft may mistake,
If fecond qualities for firft they take.
When Catiline by rapine swell'd his store;
When Cæfar made a noble dame a whore;
In this the Luft, in that the Avarice,
Were means, not ends; Ambition was the vice.
In the former Editions, ver. 208.
Nature well known, no Miracles remain.
That very Cæfar, born in Scipio's days,
Had aim'd, like him, by Chastity, at praise.
Lucullus, when Frugality could charm,
Had roafted turnips in the Sabine farm.
In vain th' obferver eyes the builder's toil,
But quite mistakes the scaffold for the pile.
In this one paffion man can ftrength enjoy,
As Fits give vigour, juft when they destroy.
Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
Yet tames not this; it sticks to our laft fand.
Confiftent in our follies and our fins,
Here honeft Nature ends as she begins.
Old Politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in business to the laft;
As weak, as earnest; and as gravely out,
As fober Lanefborow dancing in the gout.
Behold a reverend fire, whom want of grace
Has made the father of a nameless race.
Shoy'd from the wall perhaps, or rudely prefs'd
By his own fon, that paffes by unblefs'd:
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
And envies every sparrow that he sees.
A falmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate;
The doctor call'd, declares all help too late :
"Mercy! cries Helluo, mercy on my foul!
"Is there no hope?-Alas!-then bring the jowl."
The frugal Crone, whom praying priests attend,
Still strives to fave the hallow'd taper's end,
Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires,
For one puff more, and in that puff expires.
|