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Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread ! What ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the doctor, and expellid the friend-
Yet numbers feel the want of what he had ! Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest, Cutler and Brutus dying both exclaim, The young who labour, and the old who rest. “ Virtue! and wealth! what are ye but a name?” Is any sick? the Man of Ross relieves
Say, for such worth are other worlds prepar'd ? Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. Or are they both, in this, their own reward ? Is there a variance ? enter but his door,
A knotty point! to which we now proceed. Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more. But you are tir'd—I'll tell a tale-B. Agreed. Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies, And vile attorneys, now an useless race.
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies ; B. Thrice happy man ! enabled to pursue
There dwelt a citizen of sober fame, What all so wish, but want the power to do! A plain good man, and Balaam was his name; Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply? Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth; What mines to swell that boundless charity ? His word would pass for more than he was worth.
P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, One solid dish his week-day meal affords, This man possest five hundred pounds a-year. An added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's: Blush, grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw your Constant at church, and change ; his gains were sure, Ye little stars ! hide your diminish'd rays. [blaze! His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
B. And what! no monument, inscription, stone ? The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, His race, his form, his name almost unknown? And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old:
P. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
Rouz'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds swecp Of rich and poor makes all the history;
and plunge his father in the deep; Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between ; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, Prov'd by the ends of being to have been.
And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, The wretch, who living sav'd a candle's end ; He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes : Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands,
“ Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word; Belies his features, nay extends his bands;
And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board.
An honest factor stole a gem away :
So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,
“ I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; On once a flock-bed, but repair’d with straw, Where once I went to church, I'll now go twiceWith tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw, And am so clear too of all other vice." The George and Garter dangling from that bed The tempter saw his time : the work he ply'd ; Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, Great Villiers lies—alas! how chang'd from him, Till all the dæmon makes his full descent That life of pleasure, and that soul of whini ! In one abundant shower of cent per cent, Gallant and gay, in Cliefden's proud alcove, Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love;
Then dubs director, and secures his soul. Or just as gay, at council, in a ring
Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Of mimic statesmen, and their merry king.
Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit: No wit to flatter, left of all his store !
What late he call'd a blessing now was wit, No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
And God's good providence a lucky hit. There, victor of his hcalth, of fortune, friends, Things change their titles, as our manners turn: And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. IIis counting-house employ'd the Sunday morn :
His Grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, Seldom at church, ('twas such a busy life) And well (he thought) advis'd him, “Live like me!" But duly sent his family and wife. As well his Grace reply'd, “ Like you, Sir John ? There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide That I can do, when all I have is gone.”
My good old lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd. Resolve me, reason, which of these are worse,
A nymph of quality admires our knight; Want with a full, or with an empty purse?
He marries, bows at court, and grows polite ; Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confessid, Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd ? The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air : Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall,
First, for his son a gay commission buys, For very want; he could not build a wall.
Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies : His only daughter in a stranger's power,
His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife; For very want; he could not pay a dower.
She bears a coronet and p-x for life. A few grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd, In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, "T'was very want that sold them for two pound. And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains.
My lady falls to play: so bad her chance,
TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF BURLINGTON.
Of the Use of Riches.
"Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ
For what has Virto painted, built, and planted ?
You show us Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of use. Yet shall (my lord) your just, your noble rules Fill half the land with imitating fools ; Who random drawings from your sheets shall take, And of one beauty many blunders make; Load some vain church with old theatric state, Turn arcs of triumph to a garden gate; Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all On some patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall; Then clap four slices of pilaster on't, That, lac'd with bits of rustic, makes a front. Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door ; Conscious they act a true Palladian part, And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.
Oft have you hinted to your brother peer
To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,
Consult the genius of the place in all ;
Still follow sense, of every art the soul,
Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls,
Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete ; His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet ; The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, And strength of shade contends with strength of light; A waving glow the bloomy beds display, Blushing in bright diversities of day, With silver-quivering rills meander'd o'er-Enjoy them, you ! Villario can no more ; Tir'd of the scene parterres and fountains yield, He finds at last he better likes a field. (stray'd,
Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus Or sate delighted in the thickening shade, With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Or see the stretching branches long to meet ! His son's fine taste an opener vista loves, Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves ; One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views, With all the mournful family of yews : The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade.
At Timon's villa let us pass a day, Where all cry out, “ What sums are thrown away!” So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Soft and agreeable come never there. Greatness with Timon dwells in such a draught As brings all Brobdignag 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 sees, A puny insect, 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 wird. 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, cach alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suffering eye inverted nature sees,
Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feedTrees cut to statues, statues thick as trees ;
The milky heifer and deserving steed;
Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,
First shade a country, and then raise a town.
You too proceed ! make falling arts your care, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.
Erect new wonders, and the old repair ; My lord advances with majestic mien,
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be scen :
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before : But soft_by regular approach—not yet
Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind, First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd) And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg’d your Bid harbours open, public ways extend, Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. (thighs, Bid temples worthier of the God ascend;
His study! with what authors is it stor'd ? Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain,
The mole projected break the roaring main ;
These honours, peace to happy Britain brings ;
And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
EPISTLE TO MR. ADDISON; Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,
OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS. Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,
See the wild waste of all-devouring years ! Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, Op gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
With nodding arches, broken temples spread ! And bring all paradise before your eye.
The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead ! To rest the cushion and soft dean invite,
Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, Who never mentions hell to ears polite.
Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd: But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall:
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods :
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey ;
Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age,
Some hostile fury, some religious rage. A solemn sacrifice perform'd in state,
Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
And papal piety, and Gothic fire.
That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
Amdition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,
The faithless column and the crumbling bust: Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave, Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve!
shore, I curse such lavish cost and little skill,
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more ! And swear no day was ever past so ill.
Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design, Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed ; And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. Health to hiinself, and to his infants bread,
A narrow orb cach crowded conquest keeps, The labourer bears : what his hard heart denies, Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps. His charitable vanity supplies.
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, Another age shall see the golden ear
And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, A small Euphrates through the piece is rollid, Deep harvests bury all his pride has plannid, And little eagles wave their wings in gold. And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.
The medal, faithful to its cliarge of fame,
In one short view subjected to our eye,
With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore,
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years !
To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, Friend to my life! (which did you not prolong, Onę grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams :
The world had wanted many an idle song) Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd; Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love ? And Curio, restless by the fair one's side,
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped ; Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.
If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead. Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine:
Seiz'd ard ty'd down to judge, how wretched I ! Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine: Who can't be silent, and who will not lie: Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view,
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace ; And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage;
I sit with sad civility; I read These plas'd the fathers of poetic rage:
With honest anguish, and an aching head; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And drop at last, but in unwilling cars, And art reflected images to art.
This saving counsel, “ Keep your piece nine years." Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, ** Nine ycars !” cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
Lullid by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, In living medals see her wars enroll'd,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before tenn ends, And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold ? Oblig'd by hunger, and request of friends : Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;
“The piece, you think, is incorrect ? why take it; There, warriors frowning in historic brass :
I'm all submission ; what you'd have it, make it.” Then future ages with delight shall see
Three things another's modest wishes bound, How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Or in fair series laureld bards be shown,
Pitholeon sends to me: “ You know his Grace; A Virgil there, and here an Addison.
I want a patron; ask him for a place.” Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) Pitholeon libellid me—" but here's a letter On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine ;
Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better With aspect open shall erect his head,
Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine,
A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse."
If I approve,
'" commend it to the stage.” Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
(thank my stars) my whole commission ends, And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Muse he lov’d.” The players and I are, luckily, no friends.
Fir'd that the house reject him, “ 'Sdeath! I'll print it,
Lintot, dull rogue ! will think your price too much:
All my demurs but double his attacks:
At last he whispers, “ Do; and we go snacks." P. Shut up the door, good John ! fatigu'd I said, Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
Sir, let me see your works and you no more." The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
(Midas, a sacred person and a king) Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
His very minister, who spy'd them first, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. (Some say his queen) was forc'd to speak, or burst.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. When every coxcomb perks them in my face? By land, by water, they renew the charge;
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings ; No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick, Evin Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me; "Tis nothing—P. Nothing ? if they bite and kick ? Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Out with it, Dunciad ! let the secret pass, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.
That secret to each fool that he's an ass : Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer,
The truth once told, (and wherefore should we lie?) A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
The queen of Midas slept, and so may I. A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
You think this cruel? Take it for a rule, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? No creature smarts so little as a fool. Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls Let peals of laughter, Codrus ! round thee break, With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls ? Thou unconcern'd canst hear the mighty crack: All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strain
Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurl'd, Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Thou stand’st unshook amidst a bursting world. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Who shames a scribbler ? Break one cobweb through, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause : He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew : Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.
The crcature's at his dirty work again ;
Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, Proud of a vast extent of Aimsy lines !
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Whom have I hurt ? has poet yet, or peer,
Commas and points they set exactly right, Lost the arch'd eyebrow, or Parnassian sneer ? And 'twerę a sin to rob them of their mite. And has not Colly still his lord, and whore ? Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, His butchers Henley, his freemasons Moor?
From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds : Does not one table Bavius still admit ?
Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit ? (fend - Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Still Sappho—A. Hold; for God's sake-you'll of. Ev'n such small critics some regard may claim, No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend : Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms But foes like these—P. One flatterer's worse than all. Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms ! Of all mad creatures, if the learn'd are right, The things we know are neither rich nor rare, It is the slaver kills, and not the bite.
But wonder how the devil they got there. A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
Were others angry? I excus'd them too; Alas ! 'tis ten times worse when they repent. Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. One dedicates in high heroic prose,
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find ; And ridicules beyond a hundred foes :
But each man's secret standard in his mind, One from all Grub-street will my fame defend, That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. This, who can gratify ? for who can guess ? This prints my letters, that expects a bribe,
The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, And others roar aloud, “ Subscribe, subscribe!” Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown,
There are, who to my person pay their court : Just writes to make his barrenness appear, (year; I cough like Horace, and though lean, am short, And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, He, who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, Such Ovid's nose, and, “ Sir! you have an eye !"- Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
And he, who now to sense, now nonsense leaning, All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me.
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning; Say for my comfort, languishing in bed,
And he, whose fusțian's so sublimely bad, “ Just so immortal Maro held his head;"
It is not poetry, but prose run mad: And when I die, be sure you let me know
All these, my modest satire bade translate, Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago.
And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. Why did I write ? what sin to me unknown How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! Dipp'd me in ink; my parents', or my own? And swear, not Addison himself was safe. As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,
Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; I left no calling for this idle trade,
Blest with each talent and each art to please, No duty broke, no father disobey'd :
And born to write, converse, and live with ease : The Muse but serv'd to case some friend, not wife; Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, To help me through this long disease, my life; Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, To second, Arbuthnot ! thy art and care,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise ;
Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend,
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend ;
And so obliging that he ne'er oblig'd;
Soft were my numbers: who could take offence Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ?
What though my name stood rubric on the walls, A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ? Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill;
Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still.
On wings of winds came flying all abroad ? Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret;
I sought no homage from the race that write; I never answer'd, I was not in debt.
I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight; If want provok'd, or madness made them print, Poems I hecded (now berhym'd so long) I wag'd no war with bedlam or the mint.
No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. Did some more sober critic come abroad;
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. To spread about the itch of verse and praise ;