How zeal in Prifcus nothing more than heats,
In Codex burns, and ruins all it meets;
How freedom now a lovely face fhall wear,
Now fhock us in the likeness of a bear;
How jealousy in some resembles hate,
In others, feems but love grown delicate;
How modefty is often pride refin'd,
And virtue but the canker of the mind;
How love of riches, grandeur, life, and fame,
Wear different shapes, and yet are still the same.
But not our paffions only disagree,
In tafte is found as great variety :
Sylvius is ravish'd when he hears a hound,
His lady hates to death the odious found:
Yet both love music, though in different ways;
He in a kennel, fhe at opera's.
A florift fhall, perhaps, not grudge fome hours,
To view the colours in a bed of flowers;
Yet, fhew him TITIAN'S workmanship divine,
He paffes on, and only cries, 'tis fine.
A rufty coin, an old worm-eaten post,
The mouldy fragment of an author loft,
A butterfly, an equipage, a star,
A globe, a fine lac'd hat, a china jar,
A mistress, or a fashion that is new,
Have each their charms, though felt but by a few.
Then study each man's paffion and his taste,
The first to soften, and indulge the last:
Not like the wretch, who beats down virtue's fence,
And deviates from the path of common sense;
Who daubs with fulfome flattery, blind and bold,
The very weakness we with grief behold.
Paffions are common to the fool and wife,
And all would hide them under art's disguise;
For fo avow'd, in others, is their shame,
Nore hates them more, than he who has the fame.
But taste seems more peculiarly our own,
And every man is fond to make his known;
Proud of a mark he fancies is defign'd
By nature to advance him o'er his kind;
And where he fees that character imprefs'd,
With joy he hugs the favourite to his breast.
But the main stress of all our cares must lie,
To watch ourselves with strict and constant
To mark the working mind, when paffion's course
Begins to fwell, and reafon ftill has force;
Or, if fhe's conquer'd by the stronger tide,
Observe the moments when they first subside;
For he who hopes a victory to win
O'er other men, must with himself begin;
Elfe like a town by mutiny opprefs'd,
He's ruin'd by the foe within his breast;
And they alone, who in themselves oft view
Man's image, know what method to pursue.
All other creatures keep in beaten ways,
Man only moves in an eternal maze:
He lives and dies, not tam'd by cultivation,
The wretch of reason, and the dupe of paffion;
Curious of knowing, yet too proud to learn;
More prone to doubt, than anxious to difcern:
Tir'd with old doctrines, prejudic'd at new;
Mistaking still the pleasing for the true;
Foe to restraints approv'd by gen'ral voice,
Yet to each fool-born mode a flave by choice:
Of reft impatient, yet in love with ease;
When most good-natur'd, aiming how to teaze :
Difdaining by the vulgar to be aw'd,
Yet never pleas'd but when the fools applaud:
By turns fevere, indulgent, humble, vain;
A trifle ferves to lofe him or to gain.
grant this trifle, yet his vices fhun,
Not like to CATO or to CLINIAS' fon:
This for each humour every shape could take, Ev'n virtue's own, though not for virtue's fake; At Athens rakish, thoughtless, full of fire, Severe at Sparta, as a Chartreux fryar;
In Thrace, a bully, drunken, rash, and rude;
In Afia gay, effeminate and lewd;
While the rough Roman, virtue's rigid friend,
Could not to fave the cause he dy'd for bend:
In him 'twas scarce an honour to be good,
He more indulg'd a paffion than fubdu❜d.
See how the skilful lover spreads his toils,
When eager in pursuit of beauty's spoils!
Behold him bending at his idol's feet;
Humble, not mean; difputing, and yet fweet;
In rivalship not fierce, nor yet unmov'd;
Without a rival ftudious to be lov'd;
For ever cheerful, though not always witty,
And never giving cause for hate or pity:
These are his arts, fuch arts as must prevail,
When riches, birth, and beauty's felf will fail:
And what he does to gain a vulgar end,
Shall we neglect, to make mankind our friend?
Good fenfe and learning may efteem obtain; Humour and wit a laugh, if rightly ta'en:
Fair virtue admiration may impart ;
But 'tis good-nature only wins the heart:
It moulds the body to an eafy grace,
And brightens every feature of the face:
It smooths th' unpolish'd tongue with eloquence,
And adds perfuafion to the finest sense.
Yet this, like every difpofition, has
Fixt bounds, o'er which it never ought to pass;
When ftretch'd too far, its honour dies away,
Its merit finks, and all its charms decay;
Among the good it meets with no applause,
And to its ruin the malicious draws:
A flave to all, who force it, or entice,
It falls by chance in virtue or in vice.
'Tis true, in pity for the poor it bleeds,
It cloaths the naked, and the hungry feeds;
It cheers the ftranger, nay its foes defends,
But then as oft it injures its beft friends.
Study with care Politenefs, that must teach
The modifh forms of gefture and of speech:
In vain Formality, with matron mien,
And Pertness apes her with familiar grin
They against nature for applauses strain,
Distort themselves, and give all others pain :
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