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;
When (each opinion with the next at strife,
One ebb, and flow of follies all my life)

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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;

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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,
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?

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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, nor fear, had any share, so he supported his title to it by all the offices of true friendship.

•NOT

OT 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, 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.

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?

5

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Or popularity? or stars, and strings?
The mob's applauses, or the gift, of kings?
Say with what eyes we ought, at courts, to gaze,
And pay the great our homage of amaze?

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If weak the pleasure that from these can spring, The fear to want them is as weak a thing: Whether we dread, or whether we desire, In either case believe me we admire : Whether we joy, or grieve, the same the curse, Surpris'd at better, or surpris'd at worse.

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Thus good, or bad, to one extreme betray Th' unbalanc'd mind, and snatch the man away; 25 For virtue's self may too much zeal be had; The worst of madmen is, a saint run mad. Go then, and if you can, admire the state Of beaming diamonds and reflected plate; Procure a taste to double the surprise, And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes; Be struck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye, Our birth-day nobles' splendid livery. If not so pleas'd, at council-board rejoice To see their judgments hang upon thy voice; From morn to night, at Senate, Rolls, and Hall, Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all. But wherefore all this labor, all this strife? For fame, for riches, for a noble wife? Shall one whom Nature, learning, birth, conspir'd To form, not to admire, but be admir'd, Sigh, while his Chloe, blind to wit and worth, Weds the rich dulness of some son of carth?

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Yet time ennobles, or degrades each line;

lie;

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It brighten'd Craggs's, and may darken thine. 45
And what is fame? the meanest have their day;
The greatest can but blaze, and pass away.
Grac'd as thou art with all the pow'r of words,
So known, so honor'd, at the House of Lords:
Conspicuous scene! another yet is nigh,
(More silent far) where kings and poets
Where Murray (long enough his country's pride)
Shall be no more than Tully, or than Hyde!
Rack'd with sciatics, martyr'd with the stone,
Will any mortal let himself alone?
See Ward, by batter'd beaux invited over,
And desp❜rate Misery lays hold on Dover.
The case is easier in the mind's disease;

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There all men may be cur'd whene'er they please. Would ye be bless'd? despise low joys, low gains;

Disdain whatever Cornbury disdains;

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Be virtuous; and be happy for your pains.
But art thou one whom new opinions sway,
One who believes as Tindal leads the way,
Who virtue, and a church alike disowns,
Thinks that but words, and this but brick and
stones ?

Fly then on all the wings of wild desire,

Admire whate'er the maddest can admire.

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Is wealth thy passion? hence! from pole to pole, Where winds can carry, or where waves can

For Indian spices, for Peruvian gold,
Prevent the greedy, or outbid the bold;
Advance thy golden mountain to the skies;
On the broad base of fifty thousand rise;
Add one round hundred, and (if that's not fair) 75
Add fifty more, and bring it to a square:
For, mark th' advantage; just so many score
Will gain a wife, with half as many more,
Procure her beauty, make that beauty chaste,
And then such friends-as cannot fail to last. 80
A man of wealth is dubb'd a man of worth;
Venus shall give him form, and Anstis birth.
(Believe me many a German prince is worse,
Who, proud of pedigree, is poor of purse.)
His wealth brave Timon gloriously confounds; 85
Ask'd for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds :
Or, if three ladies like a luckless play,
Take the whole House upon the poet's day.
Now, in such exigencies not to need,
Upon my word you must be rich indeed:

A noble superfluity it craves,

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Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves;
Something which for your honor they may cheat,
And which it much behoves you to forget.

If wealth alone then make, and keep us, blest, 95
Still, still, be getting; never, never, rest.
But if to pow'r, and place, your passion lie,
If in the pomp of life consists the joy,
Then hire a slave, or (if you will) a lord,
To do the honors, and to give the word;

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