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There, London's voice, Get money, money still!

And then let Virtue follow if she will. 80 This, this, the saving doctrine preach'd to all, From low St. James's up to high St. Paul; From him whose quills stand quiver'd at his car, To him who notches sticks at Westminster. · Barnard in spirit, sense, and truth, abounds ; 85 • Pray then what wants he ?' Fourscore thousand

pounds; A pension, or such harness for a slave As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have. Barnard thou art a Cit, with all thy worth; But Bug and D*), Their Honors ! and so forth.

Yet ev'ry child another song will sing, 91 « Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king.' True conscious honor is to feel no sin; He's arm’d without that's innocent within: Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass; 95 Compar'd to this a minister's an ass.

And say, to which shall our applause belong, This new court-jargon, or the good old song? The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy, or Poitiers ? 100 Who counsels best? who whispers, · Be but great,

With praise, or infamy, leave phạt to Fate; • Get place, and wealth, if possible, with grace ; • If not, by any means, get wealth and place.' For what? to have a box where eunuchs sing, And foremost in the circle eye a king:

106

Or he who bids thee face with steady view
Proud Fortune, and look shallow Greatness

through,
And while he bids thee sets th’ example too ?)
If such a doctrine, in St. James's air, 110
Should chance to make the well-dress'd rabble

stare ;
If honest S**z take scandal at a spark
That less admires the Palace than the Park;
Faith I shall give the answer Reynard gave,

1 cannot like, dread Sir! your royal cave : 118 • Because I see, by all the tracts about, • Full many a beast goes in, but none come out.' Adieu to Virtue, if you're once a slave : Send her to court, you send her to her grave. Well, if a king's a lion, at the least

120 The people are a many-headed beast. Can they direct what measures to pursue, Who know themselves so little what to do? Alike in nothing but one lust of gold, Just half the land would buy, and half be sold: 123 Their country's wealth, our mightier misers drain, Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main ; The rest, some farm the poor-box, some the pews; Some keep assemblies, and would keep the stews ; Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn ; 130 Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn; While with the silent growth of ten per cent, Io dirt and darkness hundreds stink content.

Of all these ways, if each pursues his own, Satire be kind, and let the wretch alone;

135 But shew me one who has it in his pow'r To act consistent with himself an hour. Sir Job sail'd forth, the ev'ning bright and still, • No place on earth (he cry'd) like Greenwich

hill! · Up starts a palace ; 10, th' obedient base 140) Slopes at its foot, the woods its sides embrace, The silver Thames reflects its marble face. Now let some whimsey,---or that devil within, Which guides all those who know not what

they mean, But give the knight (or give his lady) spleen, ) • Away, away! take all your scaffolds down, 146 For Snug's the word: my dear!, we'll live in

Town.' At am'rous Flavio is the stocking thrown? That very night he longs to lie alone. The fool, whose wife elopes, some thrice a quarter, For matrimonial solace dies a martyr. 151 Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch, Transform themselves so strangely as the rich? Well, but the poor-the poor have the same

itch; They change their weekly barber, weekly news, Prefer a new japanner to their shoes; 156 Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run (They know not whither) in a chaise and one ; They hire their sculler, and, when once aboard, Grow sick, and damn the climate-like a lord. 160

You laugh, half-beau, half-sloven, if I stand,
My wig all powder, and all snuff my band;
You laugh if coat and breeches strangely vary,
White gloves, and linen, worthy Lady Mary!
But when no prelate's lawn, with hair-shirt lin'd
Is half so incoherent as my mind;

166
When (each opinion with the next at strife,
One ebb, and flow of follies all my life)
I plant, root up; I build, and then confound;
Turn round to square, and square again to round;
You never change one muscle of your face, 171
You think this madness but a common case ;
Nor once to chanc'ry, nor to Hale apply,
Yet hang your lip, to see a seam awry!
Careless how ill I with myself agree, 175
Kind to my dress, my figure, not to me.
Is this my guide, philosopher, and friend ?
This he who loves me, and who ought to mend?
Who ought to make me (what he can, or none)
That man divine whom Wisdom calls her own; 180
Great, without title, without fortune, bless'd;
Rich ev'n when plunder'd, honor'd while oppress'd;
Lov'd, without youth, and follow'd, without pow'r;
At home, though exil'd; free, though in the

- Tow'r : In short, that reas'ning, high, immortal thing, 185 Just less than Jove, and much above a king : Nay, half in heav'n-except (what's mighty odd) A fit of vapors clouds this demigod ? 188

VOL. u. . P .

HORACE, BOOK I. EPISTLE VI.

IMITATED

TO MR. MURRAY.

THIS piece is the most finished of all his imitations, and executed in the high manner the Italian painters call Con Amore. By which they mean, the exertion of that principle, which puts the faculties on the stretch, and produces the supreme degree of excellence. For the poet had all the warmth of affection for the great lawyer to whom it is addressed; and, indeed, no man ever more deserved to have a poet for his friend. In the obtaining of which, as neither vanity, party, por fear, had any share, so he supported his title to it by all the offices of true friendship.

'Not to admire, is all the art I know

To make men happy, and to keep them so.' (Plain truth, dear Murray! needs no flow'rs of

speech, So take it in the very words of Creech.)

This vault of air, this congregated ball, 5 Self-centred sun, and stars, that run and fall, There are, my Friend! whose philosophic eyes. Look through, and trust the Ruler with his skies ; To him commit the hour, the day, the year, And view this dreadful All without a fear. 10 1 Admire we then what earth's low entrails hold, ) · Arabian shores, or Indian seas infold;

All the mad trade of fools and slaves for gold?)

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