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This year a reservoir to keep and spare,
The next a fountain spouting through his heir,
In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.

Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth :
What though (the use of barbarous spits forgot)
His kitchen vy'd in coolness with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor'd,
With soups unbought, and sallads, bless'd his board?
If Cotta liv'd on pulse, it was no more
Than Bramins, saints, and sages, did before:
To cram the rich was prodigal expence ;
And who would take the poor from Providence ?
Like some lone chartreux stands the good old hall,
Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound;
No noon-tide bell invites the country round;
Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey,
And turn the unwilling steeds another way ;
Benighted wanderers the forest o'er,
Curse the sav'd candle, and unopening door;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar, whom he longs to eat.

Not so his son; he mark'd this oversight, And then mistook reverse of wrong for right: (For what to shun, will no great knowledge need, But what to follow is a task indeed !) Yet sure of qualities deserving praise, More go to ruin fortunes than to raise. What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the capacious squire and deep divine! Yet no mean motive this profusion draws; His oxen perish in his country's cause; 'Tis George and Liberty that crowns the cup, And zeal for that great house which eats him up. The woods recede around the naked seat, The Sylvans groan-no matter-for the fleet: Next goes his wool--to clothe our valiant bands; Last, for his country's love, he sells his lands.

To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a pope.
And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain! that pays her patriots with her spoils
In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his cause;
His thankless country leaves him to her laws.

The sense to value riches, with the art
To enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,
Not meanly nor ambitiously pursu'd,
Not sapk by sloth, nor rais'd by servitude;
To balance fortune by a just expence,
Join with economy magnificence ;
With splendour charity, with plenty health,
O! teach us, Bathurst ! yet unspoil'd by wealth!
That secret rare between the extremes to move,
Of mad good-nature and of mean self-love,

B. To worth or want well-weigh'd be bounty giv'a,
And ease or emulate the care of Heav'n;
(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race)
Mend fortune's fault, and justify her grace,
Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd,
As poison heals in just proportion us'd:
lo heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies,
But, well dispers'd, is incense to the skies.

P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats? The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats.. Is there a lord that knows a cheerful noon Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon ? Whose table wit or modest merit share, Unelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player ? Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part, To ease the oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart? Where'er he shines, O fortune! gild the scene, And angels guard him in the golden mean! There English bounty yet awhile may stand, And honour linger ere it leaves the land.

But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! and sing The Man of Ross : Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.

Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls maguificently lost,
But clear and artless pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose ?
Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise ?
“ The Man of Ross,” each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread :
He feeds yon aluuhouse, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate :
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick ? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, and medicine makes and gives.
Is there a variance ? enter but his door,
Baulk'd are the courts, and contest is no more:
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attornies, now an useless race.

B. Thrice happy man ! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
0! say, what sums that generous hand supply?
What mines to swell that boundless charity?

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possess'd-five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur! blush-proud courts! withdraw

your blaze ; Ye little stars ! hide your diminish'd rays !

B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone, 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! search 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 sav'd a candle's end :
Shouldering Gods altar a vile image stands,
Belies his features, nay, extends his hands;
That live-long wig, which Gorgon's self might own,
Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.
Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend !
And see what comfort it affords our end.

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hang,
The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed,
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villiers lies-alas ! how chang'd from him,
That life of pleasure, and that soul 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 mimic statesmen and their merry king:
No wit to flatter, left of all his store !
No fool to laugh at, which he valu'd more;
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends!

His Grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, And well (he thought) advis'd him, " Live like me." As well his Grace reply'd, “ Like you, Sir Joha? That I can do, when all I have is gone !”. Resolve me, reason, which of these is worse, Want with a full or with an empty purse ? Thy life more wretched, Cutler! was confess'd; Arise and tell me, was thy death more bless'd? Cutler saw 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 grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd; 'Twas very want that sold them for two pound. What ! ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end, Banish'd the doctor, and expelld 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 such worth are other worlds prepar'd?.
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 sober fame, A plain good man, and Balaam was his name; Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth; His word would pass for more than he was worth. One solid dish his week-day meal aftords, An added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's : Constant at church and change; his gains were sare; His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

The devil was piqu’d such saintship to behold, And long'd 'to tempt him, like good Job of old ; But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Rous'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep 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 di'mond, 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 subscriptious pour on every side,

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