There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends!

His grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, And well (he thought) advised him, ‘Live like me.' As well his grace replied, Like you, Sir John? That I can do when all I have is gone!'

Resolve me, Reason, which of these is worse,
Want with a full or with an empty purse?
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;
For very want he could not pay a dower.
A few grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd;
'Twas very want that sold them for two pound.
What, e'en denied a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend?
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 prepared?
Or are they both in this their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tired—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,
And added pudding solemnized the Lord's:

Constant at church and 'Change; his gains were

sure;

His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

The devil was piqued 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.
Roused by the prince of air, the whirlwinds sweep
The surge, and plunge his father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,
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.
'Live like yourself,' was soon my lady's word;
And, lo! two puddings smoked upon the board,
Asleep and naked as an Indian lay

An honest factor stole a gem away :

He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eased his thought; I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church I'll now go twiceAnd am so clear too of all other vice.'

The tempter saw his time; the work he plied; Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, Till all the demon makes his full descent In one abundant shower of cent per cent, Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, Then dubs director, and secures his soul.

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a blessing, now was wit; And God's good providence, a lucky hit.

Things change their titles as our manners turn : His counting-house employ'd the Sunday morn:

Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life)
But duly sent his family and wife.

There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide
My good old lady catch'd a cold and died.

A nymph of quality admires our knight;
He marries, bows at court, and grows polite;
Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair)
The well-bred cuckolds in Saint James's air:
First for his son a gay commission buys,
Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies:
His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife;
She bears a coronet and pox for life.

In Britain's senate he a seat obtains,
And one more pensioner Saint Stephen gains.
My lady falls to play; so bad her chance,
He must repair it; takes a bribe from France:
The house impeach him; Coningsby harangues;
The court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs.
Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown:
The devil and the king divide the prize,
And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.

1

EPISTLE IV.

To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington.

OF THE USE OF RICHES.

Argument.

The vanity of expense in people of wealth and quality. The abuse of the word taste.-That the first principle and foundation in this, as in every thing else, is good sense.The chief proof of it is to follow nature, even in works of mere luxury and elegance. Instanced in architecture and gardening, where all must be adapted to the genius and use of the place, and the beauties not forced into it, but resulting from it.--How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings for want of this true foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all; and the best examples and rules will but be perverted into something burdensome and ridiculous.-A description of the false taste of magnificence; the first grand error of which is to imagine that greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the proportion and harmony, of the whole. And the second, either in joining together parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the repetition of the same too frequently.-A word or two of false taste in books, in music, in painting, even in preaching and prayer, and lastly in entertainments.-Yet Providence is justified in giving wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind. [Recurring to what is laid down in the first book, ep. ii. and in the epistle preceding this.]-What are the proper objects of magnificence, and a proper field for the expense of great men.-And, finally, the great and public works which become a prince.

'Tis strange the miser should his cares employ
To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy:
Is it less strange the prodigal should waste
His wealth to purchase what he ne'er can taste?

Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats;
Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats:
He buys for Topham drawings and designs;
For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins;
Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone,
And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane.
Think we all these are for himself? no more
Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
Only to show how many tastes he wanted.
What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste?
Some demon whisper'd, 'Visto! have a taste.'
Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool,
And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.
See sportive Fate, to punish awkward Pride,
Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide:
A standing sermon at each year's expense,
That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence !

You show us Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of use; Yet shall, my lord, your just, your noble rules, Fill half the land with imitating fools;

Who random drawings from your sheets shall take;
And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load some vain church with old theatric state;
Turn arcs of triumph to a garden gate;
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all
On some patch'd dog-hole eked with ends of wall,
Then clap four slices of pilaster on't,

That, laced with bits of rustic, makes a front;

Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door:

Conscious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.