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VILLERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

IN the worst inn's worft room, with mat half

hung,

The floors of plaifter, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with ftraw,
With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow ftrove with dirty red,
Great Villers lies-alas! how chang'd from him,
That life of Pleasure, and that foul of Whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcové,
The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury and love;
Or just as gay, at Council, in a ring

Of mimick'd Statesmen, and their merry King.
No Wit to flatter, left of all his ftore!

No Fool to laugh at, which he valu'd more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame; this lord of ufelefs thousands ends.

IBID. P. 155.

SIR BALAAM.

WHERE London's column, pointing at the skies
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;
There dwelt a Citizen of fober fame,

A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and fo forth;
His word would pafs for more than he was worth.
́One folid dish his week-day meal affords,
An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's:

Conftant

Conftant at Church, and 'Change; his gains were

fure,

His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.

The Dev'I was piqu'd fuch faintship 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 furge, and plunge his Father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,
And two rich fhipwrecks blefs the lucky fhore.

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: Live like yourfelf," was foon my Lady's word; And lo! two puddings fmoak'd upon the board..

Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,

An honeft factor ftole 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 fcruple rofe, but thus he eas'd his thought, "I'll now give fixpence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church, I'll now go " twice

And am fo clear too of all other vice."

The

The Tempter faw his time; the work he ply'd; Stocks and Subfcriptions pour on ev'ry fide, 'Till all the Dæmon makes his full descent. In one abundant fhow'r of Cent per Cent, Sinks deep within him, and poffeffes whole, Then dubs Director, and fecures his foul.

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Afcribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a Bleffing, now was Wit, And God's good Providence, a lucky Hit. Things change their titles, as our manners turn : His Compting-house employ'd the Sunday-morn: Seldom at Church ('twas such a bufy life) But duly fent his family and wife.

There (fo the Dev'l 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 of St. James's air: Firft, for his Son 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 Senate he a feat obtains, And one more Penfioner St. Stephen gains. My Lady falls to play: fo bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;

The

The Houfe impeach him, Coningsby harangues;
The Court forfake 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.

IBID. P. 157.

TASTE.

"TIS ftrange the Mifer should his Cares employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy:

Is it lefs ftrange, the Prodigal fhould wafte
His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste
Not for himself he fees, or hears, or eats;
Artists must choofe his Pictures, Mufic, Meats:
He buys for Topham, Drawings and Defigns,
For Pembroke, Statues, dirty Gods, and Coins;
Rare monkish Manufcripts 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 fhew how many taftes he wanted. What brought Sir Vito's ill-got wealth to waste? Some Dæmon whifper'd "Vifto! have a Tafte." Heav'n vifits 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 fends him fuch a Guide:

A

1

A ftanding fermon, at each year's expence,
That never Coxcomb reach'd magnificence!

You fhew us, Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of Ufe. Yet fhall (my Lord) your juft, your noble rules, Fill half the land with imitating Fools; Who random drawings from your sheets fhall take, And of one beauty many blunders make; Load fome vain Church with old Theatric ftate, Turn Arcs of triumph to a Garden-gate; Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all On fome patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall; Then clap four flices of Pilafter on't,

That, lac'd with bits of ruftic, makes a Front;
Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;

Conscious they act the 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 Sense:
Good Senfe, which only is the gift of Heav'n,
And, though no Science, fairly worth the feven:
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,

Te

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