**But he to you has ever been severe ;

.

255

260

"And there is mercy ftill, for you, in store: "With me the bitterness of death is o'er. "He fhot his fting in that farewel-embrace; "And all, that is to come, is joy and peace. "Then let mistaken forrow be fuppreft, "Nor feem to envy my approaching reft." Then, turning to the minifters of fate, She, fmiling, fays. "my victory's complete: "And tell your Queen, Ithank her for the blow, "And grieve my gratitude I cannot fhow: "A poor return I leave in England's crown, "For everlasting pleasure, and renown: "Her guilt alone allays this happy hour; "Her guilt-the only vengeance in her power." Not Rome, untouch'd with forrow, heard her fate;

And fierce Maria pity'd her too late.

*Here fhe embraces them.

215

Hard-hearted men! will you no merit know?

Has the Queen brib'd you to distress her foe:
O weak deferters to misfortune's part,
By falfe affection thus to pierce her heart!
When she had foar'd, to let your arrows fly, 220
And fetch her bleeding from the middle sky!
And can her virtue, fpringing from the ground,
Her flight recover, and difdain the wound,
When cleaving love, and human interest, bind
The broken force of her afpiring mind,
As round the gencrous eagle, which in vain
Exerts her frength, the ferpent wreaths his

train,

225

Her fruggling wings entangles, curling plies His poisonous tail, and ftings her as the flies! While yet the blow's first dreadful weight she feels,

230

And with its force her refolution reels;
Large doors, unfolding with a mournful found,
To view difcover, weltering on the ground,
Three headless trunks, of those whofe arms main-

tain'd,

235

240

And in her wars immortal glory gain'd;
The lifted ax affur'd her ready doom,
And filent mourners fadden'd all the room.
Shall I proceed; or here break off my tale?
Nor truths, to ftagger human faith, prevail.
She met this utmost malice of her fate
With Chriftian dignity, and pious state:
The beating forms propitious rage he bleft,
And all the martyr triumph'd in her breast ;
Her lord and father, for a moment's space,
She ftrictly folded in her foft embrace!
Then thus fhe fpoke, while angels heard on high,
And fudden gladnefs fmil'd along the sky:

245

"Your over-fondnefs has not mov'd my. hate "I am well pleas'd you made my death fo great; "Ijoy I cannot fave you; and have given 250 "Two lives, much dearer than my own to hea

ven,

THE

UNIVERSAL PASSION.

IN

265

40

Sits fmiling at the goal, while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking ftill!)
Ye gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.
Doubly diftreft, what author fhall we find,
Difcreetly daring, and feverely kind,
The courtly* Roman's fhining path to tread, 45
And sharply file prevailing folly dead?
Will no fuperior genius fnatch the quill,
And fave me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Though vain the ftrife, I'll strive my voice to raife.
What will not men attempt for facred praife? 50
The Love of Praife, howe'er conceal'd by art,
Reigns, more or lefs, and glows, in every heart:
The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure;
The modeft fhun it, but to make it sure.
O'er globes, and fceptres, now on thrones it
fwells;

55 Now, trims the midnight lamp in college cells: 'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, frays, preaches, pleads,

Harangues in Senates, fqueaks in Masquerades.
Here, to Steele's humour makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancers's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in fable plumes,
Adorns our hearfe, and flatters on our tombs.

What is not proud? The pimp is proud to fee
So many like himfelf in high degree:
The whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peevish virtue and the marriage bed;
And the brib'd cuckold, like crown'd victims born
To flaughter, glories in his gilded horn.

70

Some go to church, proud humbly to repent, And come back much more guilty than they

went:

* Horace.

But T alas! (excufe him, if you can)
Is now a feribbler, who was once a man.
Imperious fome a claffic fame demand,
For heaping up, with a laborious hand,
A waggon-load of meanings for one word,
While A's depos'd, and B with pomp reford.

85

Some, for reneren, on fcraps of learning deat, And think they grow inmortal as they quote. 90 To patch-work learn'd quotations are ally'd; Foth ftrive to make our poverty our pride, On glass how witty is a noble peer! Did ever diamond coft a man fo dear? Polite difeafes make fome ideots vain ; Which, if unfortunately well, they feign.

Of folly, vice, difeafe, men proud we fee: And (ftranger till!) of blockheads' fittery: Whofe praife defames, as if a foot thouid mean, By fpitting on your face, to make it clean

95

100

Nor is 't enough all hearts are fwoln with
pride,

Her power is mighty, as her realm is wide.
What can fhe not perform? The Love of Fame
Made bold Alphonfus his creator blame :
Empedocles hurl'd down the burning ftecp: 105
And (Aronger fill !; made Alexander weep.
Nay, it holds Delia from a fecond bed,
Though her lov'd lord has four half-mouths been
dead.

This paffion with a pimple have I seen
Retard a caufe, and give a judge the fpleen, 110
By this infpir'd ( ne'er to be forgot!)
Some lords have learn'd to pell, and fome to knot.
It makes Globofe a speaker in the house;
He hems, and is deliver'd of his moufe.

It makes dear felf on well-bred tongues prevail
IIS
And I the little bera of each tale.

Sick with the Love of Fame, what throngs pour in,
Unpeople court, and leave the fenate thin?
My growing fubject feems but just begun,
And, chariot-like, I kindle as I run.

120

Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.
Let high birth triumph! What can be more
great?

Nothing-but merit in a low eftate,
To virtue's humbleft fon let none prefer
Vice, though defcended from the Conqueror.
Shall men, like figures, pafs for high, or base,
Slight or important, only by their place?
Titles are marks of boneft men, and wife;
The fool, or knave, that wears a title, lyes.
They that on glorious ancestors enlarge,
Produce their debt, instead of their discharge.
Dorfet, let those who proudly boast their line,
Like thee, in worth hereditary, fine.

140

145

350

Vain as falfe greatnefs is, the Mufe muft own We want not fools to buy that Bristol ftone. Mean fons of earth, who, on a South-fea tide Of full fuccefs, fwam into realth and pride. Knock with a purfe of gold at Anftis' gate, 155 And beg to be defcended from the great,

When men of infamy to grandeur foar, They light a torch to fhew their fhame the more. Thofe governments which curb not evils, cause ! And a rich knave's a libel on our laws.

Belus with folid glry will be crown'd; He buys no phantom, no vain empty found; But builds himfelf a name; and, to be great, Sinks in a quarry an immenfe eftate!

160

165

In coft and graudeur, Chandos he'll out-do;
And, Burlington, thy tafte is not so true.
The pile is finifh'd; every toil is paft;
And fall perfection is arriv'd at laft;
When, lo! my lord to fome fmall corner runs,
And leaves ftate-rooms to frangers and to duns.,
170

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to
pay,
Provides a home from which to run away.
In Britain, what is many a lordly feat,
But a discharge, in full for an estate?

In fmaller compafs lies Pyglamion's fame; 175 Not domes, but antique ftatues, are his flame: Not Fountaine's felf more Parian charms has known;

Nor is good Pembroke ntore in love with stone.
The bailiffs come (rude men prophanely bold!))
And bid him turn his Venus into gold.
180
"No, firs, he cries; I'll fooner rot in jail:
"Shall Grecian arts be truck'd for English bail?"
Such beads might make their very bufto's laugh:
His daughter ftarves; but Cleopatra's fafe.
Men, overloaded with a large estate,
May fpill their treasure in a nice conceit:
The rich may be polite; but, oh! 'tis fad
To fay you're curious, when we fwear you're mad.

*

*A famous ftatue

185

190

By your revenue measure your expence ;
And to your funds and acres join your fenfe.
No man is blefs'd by accident or guefs;
True wifiom is the price of happiness:
Yet few without long difcipline are sage;
And our youth only lays up fighs for age..
But how, my Mufe, can't thou refist so long 195
The bright temptation of the Courtly throng,
Thy most inviting theme? The court affords
Much food for fatire;-it abounds in lords.
"What lords are thofe faluting with a grin ?"
One is juft out, and one as lately in.
"How comes it then to pafs we fee prefide
"On both their brows an equal fhare of pride ?"
Pride, that impartial passion, reigns through all,
Attends our glory, nor deferts our fall.
As in its home it triumphs in high place,
And frowns a haughty exile in difgrace.

200

265

Some lords it bids admire their wands fo white, Which bloom, like Aaron's, to their ravifh'd

fight:

210

Some lords it bids refign; and turns their wands,
Like Mofes', into ferpents in their hands.
Thefe fink, as divers, for renown;" and boast,
With pride inverted, of their honours lost.
But against reafon fure 'tis equal fin,
The boaft of merely being out, or in.

What numbers here, through odd ambition. ftrive

To seem the most transported things alive?
As if by joy, defert was understood:
And all the fortunate were ruife and good.
Hence aching bofoms wear a vifage gay,

215

And ftifled groans frequent the ball and play. 220
Completely dreft by * Monteuil and grimace,
They take their birth-day fuit and public face:
Their fmiles are only part of what they wear.
Put off at night, with Lady B-
What bodily fatigue is half fo bad?
With anxious care they labour to be glad.

's hair.

225

236

What numbers, here, would into fame advance, Conscious of merit, in the coxcomb's dance ; The tavern! park! affembly! mask and play! Thofe dear deftroyers of the tedious day'; 230 That wheel of fops! that faunter of the town! Call it diverfion, and the pill goes down. Fools grin on fools, and, foic-like fupport, Without one figh, the pleasures of a court. Courts can give nothing, to the wife and good, But fcorn of pomp, and love of folitude. High ftations tumult, but not blifs, create: None think the Great unhappy, but the Great: Fools gaze, and envy; envy darts a fling, Which makes a fwain as wretched as a king. 240 I envy none their pageantry and flow; I envy none the gilding of their woe. Give me, indulgent Gods!, with mind ferene, And guiltlefs heart, to range the sylvan fcene; No fplendid poverty, no fmiling care, No well-bred hate, or fervile grandeur, there: There pleafing objects useful thoughts fuggeft; The fenfe is ravish'd, and the foul is bleft;

250

On every thorn delightful wifdom grows;
in every rill a fweet inftruction flows.
Eut fome, untaught, o'erhear the whispering rill,
In fpite of facred leifure, blockheads ftill:
Nor fhoots up folly to a nobler bloom
In her own native foil, the drawing-room.

The Squire is proud to see his coursers strain,
Or well-breath'd beagles fweep along the plain,
Say, dear Hyppolitus (whofe drink ale,
Whofe erudition is a Chrift-mas tale,
Whofe miftrefs is faluted with a fmack,
And friend receiv'd with thumps upon the
back)

250

When thy fleek gelding nimbly leaps the mound,
And Ringwood opens on the tainted ground,
Is that thy praife? Let Ringwood's fame alone;
Juft Ringwood leaves each animal his own;
Nor envies, when a gypfy you commit,
And shake the clumfy bench with country wit;
When you the dullest of dull things have faid,
And then afk pardon for the jeft you made.

265

280

Is there a man of an eternal vein, Who lulls the town in winter with his ftrain, At Bath, in fummer, chants the reigning lafs, And fweetly whifiles as the waters pafs? Is there a tongue, like Delia's o'er her cup, That runs for ages without winding-up? Is there, whom his tenth epic mounts to fame ? Such, and fuch only, might exhauft my theme Nr would thefe heroes of the talk be glad, 285 For who can write fo faft as men run mad?

For every foul finds reason to be proud,
Though hiss'd and hooted by the pointing crowd.

Warm in pursuit of foxes and renown,
* Hippolytus demands the fylvan crown;
But Florio's fame, the product of a fhower,
Grows in his garden, an illustrious flower!
Why tecms the earth? Why melt the vernal skies?
Why fhines the fun? To make † Paul Diack rife.
From morn to night has Florio gazing stood, as
And wonder'd how the gods could be fo good;
What shape! What hue! Was ever nymph fo
fair?

He doats! he dies! he too is rooted there.
O folid blifs! which nothing can destroy,
Except a cat, bird, fnail, or idle boy.
In fame's full bloom lies Florio down at night,
And wakes next day a most inglorious wight;
The tulip s dead! See thy fair fifters fate
OC! and be kind ere 'tis too late.

30

Nor are those enemies I mention'd, all; Beware, O Florift, thy ambition's fall. A friend of mine indulg'd this noble flame; A Quaker ferv'd him, Adam was his name; Hung o'er it, and whole days in rapture spent; To one lov'd tulip oft the mafter went,

40

But came, and mifs'd it one ill-fated hour; He rag'd! he roar'd! "What demon cropt my flower?"

Serene, quoth Adam, "Lo! 'twas crush'd by

me;

"Fall'n is the baal to which thou bowd'ft thy knee."

But all men want amufement; and what crime 45

In fuch a paradife to fool their time?
None: but why proud of this? To fame they foar;
We grant they're idle, if they'll ask no more.

50

We fmile at Florists, we defpise their joy, And think their hearts enamour'd of a toy: But are those wifer whom we most admire, Survey with envy, and purfue with fire? What's he who fighs for wealth, or fame, or pow er?

Another Florio doating on a flower!

A fhort-liv'd flower; and which has often sprung

From fordid arts, as Florio's out of dung.

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy fmit? The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit. Thy gaudy fhelves with crimfon bindings glow, And Epictetus is a perfect beau.

Plain Satire calls for fenfe in every line:

All friends to vice and folly are thy foes.

When fuch the foe, a war eternal wage; 'Tis moft il-nature to reprefs thy rage:

And if these strains fome nobler Mufe excite, I'll glory in the verfe I did not write.

So weak are human-kind by nature made, Or to fuch weakness by their vice betray'd. Almighty vanity! to thee they owe Their zeft of picafure, and their balm of woe, Thou like the fun, a'i colours doft contain, Varying, like rays of light, on drops of rain,

ΙΘ

15

55

60

Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!
Thy Books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard
That science should be purchas'd by the yard;
And Tonson, turn'd upholsterer, send home 65
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.

If not to fome peculiar end defign'd,
Study's the fpecious trifling of the mind;

*This refers to the firft Satire, The name of a tulip.