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(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race)
The wretch, who living sav'd a candle's end;
Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands,
The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: “Live like yourself,” was soon my lady's word; And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board. Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away: He pledg'd it to the knight, the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, “I’ll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice— And am so clear too of all other vice.” The tempter saw his time: the work he ply'd; Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, Till all the daemon 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 soul. Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call’d a blessing now was wit, And God's good providence a lucky hit. Things change their titles, as our manners turn: His counting-house employ'd the Sunday morn: Seldom at church. ('twas such a busy life) But duly sent his family and wife. There (so 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 commission 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 seat obtains, And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains. My lady falls to play: so bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; The House impeach him, Coningsby harangues; The Court forsakes him, and Sir Balaam hangs: Wife, son, and daughter, Satan are thy own, His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown: The devil and the king divide the prize, And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.
to Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlingrax, Of the Use of Riches.
'Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ
Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone, And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane. Think we all these are for himself? no more Than his fine wife, alas ! or finer whore. For what has Virro painted, built, and planted? Only to show, how many tastes he wanted. What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste? Some daemon whisper'd, “Visto! have a taste.” Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool, And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule. See sportive fate, to punish aukward pride, Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide: A standing sermon, at each year's expense, That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence! 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 torcar, 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 A certain truth, which many buy too dear: Something there is more needful than expense, And something previous ev'n to taste—'tis sense: Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven: A light, which in yourself you must perceive; Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give. To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the column, or the arch to bend, To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot; In all, let nature never be forgot. But treat the goddess like a modest fair, Nor over dress, nor leave her wholly bare; Let not each beauty every where be spy'd, Where half the skill is decently to hide. He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds. Consult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters or to rise or fall; Or helps the ambitious hill the heavens to scale, Or scoops in circling theatres the vale; Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; Now breaks, or now directs th’ intending lines; Paints as you plant, and as you work, designs. Still follow sense, of every art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance; Nature shall join you; time shall make it grow A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow.
Without it, proud Versailles: thy glory falls; And Nero's terraces desert their walls: The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake: Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again. Ev’n in an ornament its place remark, Nor in an hermitage set Dr. Clarke. 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 A waving glow the bloomy beds display, [light; Blushing in bright diversities of day, With silver-quivering rills maeander'd o'erEnjoy them, you! Willario 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 1 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 sees, Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees; With here a fountain, never to be play'd ; And there a summer-house that knows no shade; Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers; There gladiators fight, or die in flowers; Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn. My lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen : But soft—by regular approach—not yet— First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; And when up ten steep slopes you’ve dragg'd your Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes. [thighs,
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; These Aldus printed, those Du Sučil has bound. Lo, some are vellum, 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. And now the chapel's silver 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 ceilings you devoutly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, On 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. But hark : the chiming clocks to dinner call; A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall: The rich buffet well-coloured serpents grace, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. Is this a dinner? this a genial room? 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. Between each act the trembling salvers 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, 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 cloth'd, the hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread, The labourer bears: what his hard heart denies, His charitable vanity supplies. Another age shall see the golden ear Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres re-assume 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 expense, And splendor borrows all her rays from sense. His father's acres who enjoys in peace, Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase: Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil, Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil; whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed The milky heifer and deserving steed; Whose rising forests, not for pride or show, But future buildings, future navies, grow ; Let his plantations stretch from down to down, First shade 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,
EPISTLE TO MR. ADDISON.
occAslon ED BY HIs DIALOGUES on MEDALS
See the wild waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, with nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead! Imperiai wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, wheremix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd, Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drain’d a distant country of her floods: Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey; Statues of men scarce less alive than they ! Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage. Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire. Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame, Some bury'd marble half preserves a name; That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due. Ambition sigh'd; she found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling bust: Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more l Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps. Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd, And little eagles wave their wings in gold. The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, Th’ inscription value, but the rust adore: This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years! To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams: Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour’d: And Curio, restless by the fair one's side, Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride. Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine: Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine:
Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view,
EPISTLE TO DR. A R B UTH NOT: BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIREs.
P. Shut up the door, good John fatigu'd I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The dog-star rages 1 nay, 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce mythickets, through my grotthey glide. By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, Ev’n Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me; Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time. Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza, when he should engross? Is there, who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls? All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope. Friend to my life! (which did you not prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song), What drop or nostrum can this plague remove 2 Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;
Thron'd in the centre of his thin designs,