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That secret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love.

B. To Worth or Want well-weigh’d, be Bounty given, And ease, or emulate, the care of Heaven ;

230 (Whose measure full o’erflows on human race). Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace. Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus’d; As poison heals, in just proportion us’d: In heaps, like Ambergris, a stink it lies,

235 But well dispers’d, is incense to the Skies.

P. Who starves by Nobles, or with Nobles eats ? The Wretch that trusts them, and the Rogue that cheats. Is there a Lord, who knows a chearful noon Without a Fiddler, Flatterer, or Buffoon ?

240 Whose table, Wit, or modest Merit share, Un-elbow'd by a Gamester, Pimp, or Player ? Who copies Your's, or Oxford's better part, To ease th' oppress’d, and raise the finking heart? Where'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene, 245 And Angels guard him in the golden Mean! There, English Bounty yet a while may stand, And Honour linger ere it leaves the land.

But all our praises why should Lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the MAN of Ross : 250 Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.

After ver. 250. in the MS.

Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's shore,
Who sings not him, oh may he sing no more !

Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow ?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,

Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the swain.
Whose Causeway parts the vale with shady rows ?
Whose seats the weary Traveller repose ?

260 Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? + The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies. Behold the Market-place with poor o'erspread ! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : He feeds yon Alms-house, neat, but void of state, 265 Where Age and Want fit fmiling at the gate; Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft, The young

who labour, and the old who rest. Is any fick ? the Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. 270 Is there a variance? enter but his door, Balk'd are the Courts, and contest is no more. Despairing Quacks with curses fled the place, And vile Attorneys, now an useless race.

B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue 275 What all so wish, but want the power to do! Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply? What mines to swell that boundless charity ? P. Of Debts and Taxes, Wife and Children

clear, This man posseft - five hundred pounds a-year. 280




Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud Courts, withdraw your

Ye little Stars ! hide


rays. B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone? His race, his form, his name almost unknown ?

P. Who builds a Church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his Name : Go, search it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history; Enough, that Virtue fill’d the space between; Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been. 290 When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch, who living sav'd a candle’s end; Shouldering God’s altar a vile image stands, Belies his features, nay extends his hands; That live-long wig, which Gorgon's self might own, Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone. Behold what blessings Wealth to life can lend ! And see, what comfort it affords our end. In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, The floors of plaister, and the walls of dung,

300 On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw, With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw,



Ver. 287. Thus in the MS.

The Register inrolls him with his Poor,
Tells he was born, and dy'd, and tells no more.
Just as he ought, he fill'd'the Space between;
Then stole to rest unheeded and unseen.



The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villers lies-alas ! how chang'd from him, 305
That life of Pleasure, and that foul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower 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 store !
No Fool to laugh at, which he valued more,
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And Famė; this lord of useless thousands ends.
His Grace's fate fage Cutler could forefee,

And well (he thought) advis'd him, “ Live like me!"
As well his Grace reply'd, “ Like you, Sir John ?
" That I can do, when all I have is gone.”
Resolve me, Reason, which of these are worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purse? 320
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confess’d,
Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd ?
Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall,
For very want; he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger's power,

329 For very want; he could not pay a dower. A few


hairs his reverend temples crown'd, 'Twas very want that fold them for two pound. What ! even deny'd a cordial at his end, Banish'd the Doctor, and expell’d the friend? 130 What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had !




Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim,
« Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name !"

Say, for such worth are other worlds prepar'd? 335
Or are they both, in this, their own reward ?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tir’d-I'll tell a tale – B. Agreed.

P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;

There dwelt a Citizen of sober fame,
A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;
His word would pass for more than he was worth.
One solid dish his week-day meal affords,

An added pudding solemniz’d the Lord's:
Constant at Church, and Change; his gains were sure,
His givings rare, fave farthings to the

The Devil was piqu'd such saintship 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.

Rouz’d by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds tweep
The surge, and plunge his Father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,

355 And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes :

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Ver. 337. In the former Editions,

That knotty point, my Lord, shall I discuss,
Or tell a tale?--A Tale--It follows thus.

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