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So proud, fo grand; of that stupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught
As brings all Brobdingnag before your thought.
To compass this, his Building is a Town,

His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down :
Who but must laugh, the Master when he fees,
A puny infect, shivering 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 keenness of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On every side you look, behold the Wall!
No pleasing Intricacies intervene,
No artful Wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suffering eye inverted Nature fees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees;
With herę a Fountain, never to be play'd;
And there a Summer-house that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite fails through myrtle bowers ;
There Gladiators fight, or die in flowers;
Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, 125
And swallows rooft in Nilus' dusty Urn.

My Lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen : But soft—by regular approach-not yetFirst through the length of yon hot Terrace sweat; 130


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And when up ten steep Nopes you've dragg’d your thighs, Just 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; 135 These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. Lo, some 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, These shelves admit not any modern book.

140 And now the Chapel's filver bell you hear, That summons you to all the Pride of Prayer : Light quirks of Music, broken and uneven. Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted Cielings you devoutly stare,

145 Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, And bring all Paradise before your eye. To rest, the Cushion and soft Dean invite, Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.

'150 But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call; A hundred footsteps scrape the marble Hall: The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. Is this a dinner? this a genial room?

155 No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb. A solemn Sacrifice perform'd in state, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there. 160.


Between each Act the trembling falvers ring,
From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz’d in state,
And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,
Treated, caress’d, and tir’d, I take my leave, 165
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,
And swear 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, 170
The Labourer bears : What his hard Heart denies,
His charitable Vanity supplies.


Thall see the golden Ear Imbrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre, Deep Harvest bury all his pride has plann'd, 175 And laughing Ceres reassume the land.

Who then shall grace, or who improve the Soil ? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle. 'Tis Use alone that sanctifies Expence, And Splendor borrows all her rays from Sense. 180

His Father's Acres who enjoys in peace, Or makes his Neigbours glad, if he increase : Whose chearful Tenants bless their yearly toil, Yet to their Lord owe more than to the foil ; Whose ample Lawns are not alham'd to feed 185 The milky heifer and deserving steed; Whose rising forests, not for pride or show, But future Buildings, future Navies, grow: Let his plantations ftretch from down to down, First Ahade 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 themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before :
Till Kings call forth th’ Ideas of your mind,
(Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd)
Bid Harbours open, public Ways extend,
Bid Temples, worthier of the God, afcend;
Bid the broad Arch the dangerous flood contain,
The Mole projected break the roaring Main;
Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
And roll obedient Rivers through the Land;
These Honours, Peace to Happy Britain brings,
These are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings.






Occasioned by his Dialogues on MEDÁLS.

THIS was originally written in the year 1715, when

Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of Medals; it was some time before he was Secretary of State; but not published till Mr. Tickell's Edition of his works; at which time the verses on Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were added, viz. in 1720.

As the third Epistle treated of the extremes of Avarice and Profusion; and the fourth took up one particular branch of the latter, namely, the Vanity of Expence in people of wealth and quality, and was therefore a corollary to the third; so this treats of one circumstance of that Vanity, as it appears in the common collectors of old coins : and is, therefore, a co

rollary to the fourth. SE

E E the wild Waste of all-devouring years !

How Rome her own fad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches broken temples spread ! The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead; Imperial wonders rais’d on Nations spoild,

5 Where mix'd with Slaves the groaning Martyr toil'd : Huge Theatres, that now unpeopled Woods, Now drain'd a distant country of her Floods :


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