Things change their titles as our manners turn;
His compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn;
Seldom at church, ('twas fuch a bufy life,)
But duly fent his family and wife.
There (fo 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 :
Firft for his fon a gay commiffion 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 fenate he a feat obtains,
And one more penfioner St. Stephen gains.
My lady falls to play; fo bad her chance
He mult repair it; takes a bribe from France:
The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues;
The Court forlake him, and Sir Balaam hangs.
Wife, fon, and daughter, Satan! are thy own;
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown:
The devil and the king divide the prize;
And fad Sir Balaam curfes God and dies.
TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF BURLINGTON.
Of the Ufe of Riches.
The Argument.
THE vanity of expence in people of wealth and quality. The abuse of the word Tate, v. 13. That the first principles and foundation in this, as in every thing elfe, is good fenfe, v. 40. The chief proof of it is to follow Nature, even in works of mere luxury and elegance. Intanced in architecture and gardening, where all must be adapted to the genius and ufe of the place, and the beauties not forced into it, but refulting from it, v. 50. How men are disappointed in their mot expenfive undertakings for want of this true foundation, without which nothing can pleafe long, if at all; and the best examples and rules will be but perverted into fomething burthenfome and ridiculous, v. 65 to 92. A defcription of the falfe tafte of magnificence; the first grand error of which is to imagine that greatness confifts in the fize and dimenfion, inttead of the proportion and harmony, of the whole, v. 97; and the fecond, either in joining together parts incoherent, or too minutely refembling, or, in the repetition of the fame, too frequently, v. 105, &c. A word or two of falfe Tafte in books, in music, in painting, even in preaching and prayer; and, latly, in entertainments, v. 133, &c. yet Providence is justified in giving wealth to be fquandered in this manner, fince it is difperfed to the poor and laborious part of mankind, v. 16). [recurring to what is laid down in the First Book, Ep. ii. and in the Epistle preceding this, v. 159, &c.] Wat are the proper objects of magnificence, and a proper field for the expence of great men, v. 177, &c. and, finally, the great and public works which become a prince, v. 191, to the end."
"TIS ftrange the miser fhould his cares employ
To gain those Riches he can ne'er enjoy:
Is it lefs ftrange the prodigal fhould waste
His wealth to purchase what he ne’er can taste ?
Not for himself he fees, or hears, or eats;
Artists must chufe his pictures, mufic, meats.
He buys for Topham drawings and designs,
For Pembroke ftatues, dirty gods, and coins;
Rare monkish manufcripts for Hearne alone,.
And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane.
Think we all thefe are for himself? no more
Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.
For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
Only to fhow how many tastes he wanted.
What brought Sir Vilto's ill-got wealth to waste?
Some dæmon whifper'd, "Vifto! have a taste."
Heav'n vifits with a tafle the wealthy fool,
And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.
See! fportive Fate, to punish aukward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and fends him fuch a guide:
A ftanding fermon at each year's expence,
That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence!
You show us Rome was glorious, not profuse,
And pompous buildings once were things of use;
Yet fhall, my Lord, your juft, your noble, rules 25
Fill half the land with imitating fools,
Who random drawings from your sheets shall take,
And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load fome vain church with old theatric state,
Turn arcs of triumph to a garden gate;
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all
On fome patch'd doghole ek'd with ends of wall;
Then clap four flices of pilafter on't,
The lac'd with bits of ruftic makes a front;
Shall call the winds thro' long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door,
Confcious 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 expence,
And fomething previous e'en to tafte-'tis fenfe;
Good fente, which only is the gift of Heav'n,
And tho' no fcience, fairly worth the fev'n;
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 fwell the terrace, or to fink the grot,
In all let nature never be forgot;
But treat the goddess like a modeft fair,
Nor overdrefs, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty ev'ry where be spy'd,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points who fpleafingly confounds,
Surprifes, varies, and conceals the bounds.
Confult the genius of the place in all,
That tells the waters or to rile or fall;
Or helps th' ambitious hill the heav'ns to fcale,
Or fcoops in circling theatres the vale;
Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies fhades from thades;
Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines,
Paints as you plant, and as you work designs.
Still follow fenfe, of ev'ry art the soul,
Parts anfwering parts fhall flide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start e'en 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 Verfailles! thy glory falls,
And Nero's terraces defert their walls:
The vaft parterres a thousand hands shall make,
Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake:
Or cut wide views thro' mountains to the plain,
You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again.
E'en in an ornament its place remark,
Nor in an hermitage fet Dr. Clarke.
Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete,
His quincunx darkens, his efpaliers meet,
The wood fupports the plain, the parts unite,
And strength of fhade contends with ftrength of light;
A waving glow the bloomy beds difplay,
Blushing in bright diverfities of day,
With filver-quiv'ring 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.
Thro' his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus ftray'd,
Or fat delighted in the thick'ning fhade,
With annual joy the redd'ning thoots to greet,
Or fee the stretching branches long to meet!
His fon's fine taste an op'ner visto 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 thofe alleys they were born to fhade.
At Timon's villa let us pass a day;
Where all cry out, "What fums are thrown away!"
So proud, fo grand; of that ftupendous air
Soft and agreeable come never there.
Greatness with Timon dwells in fuch 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 mafter when he sees,
A puny infect fhiv'ring at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littlenefs around!
The whole a labour'd quarry above ground.
Two Cupids fquirt before; a lake behind
Improves the keenness of the northern wind.
His gardens next your admiration call
On ev'ry fide you look behold the wall!
No pleafing intricacies intervene,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform juft reflects the other.
The fuff'ring eye inverted Nature fees,
Trees cut to ftatues, ftatues thick as trees;
With here a fountain never to be play'd,
And there a fummer-house that knows no fhade;
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Here Amphitrite fails thro' myrtle bow'rs,
There gladiators fight or die in flow'rs;
Unwater'd fee the drooping feahorse mourn,
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dusty urn.
My Lord advances with majeftic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be feen:
But foft-by regular approach-not yet-
First thro' the length of "yon' hot terrace sweat;
And when up ten fteep flopes you've dragg'd your
Juft at his study-door he'll blefs your eyes.
His study with what authors is it ftor'd!
In books, not authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round;
Thefe Aldus printed, thofe Du Sueïl has bound!
Lo, fome 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 filver bell you hear,
That fummons you to all the pride of pray'r;
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