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There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,
| To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington. One solid dish his week-day meal affords, 'Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ And added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's; To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy : Constant at church and 'change; his gains were Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste sure,
His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste? His givings rare, save farthings to the poor. Nor for hiinself he sees, or hears, or eats;
The devil was pigu'd such saintship to behold, Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats : And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old : He buys for Tophain, drawings and designs; But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
| For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins ; And tempts by making rich, not niaking poor. Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone; Rous'l by the prince of air, the whirlwinds sweep And books for Mead, and butterfiies for Sloane. The surge, and plunge his father in the deep Think we all these are for himself? No more Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, Than his fine wife, alas ! or finer whore. And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. Forwhat has Virro painted, built, and planted ?
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other fólks; Only to show how many tastes he wanted. He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste! “ Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word; Some dæmon whisperid, “ Visto! have a taste." And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board. Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy fool, Asleep and nakeri as an Indian lay,
And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule. An honest factor stole a gem away;
Sce! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride, He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit, Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide: So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. A standing sermon, at each year's expenice, boinescruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought: That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence! “ I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat;/ You show us Rome was glorious, not profuse, - Where once I went to church, I'll now go And pompous buildings once were things of use. "twice,
Yet shall (iny Lord) your just, your noble rules “ And am so clear too of all other vice." |Fill half the land with imitating fools; (take,
The tempter saw his time; the work he plied; Who random drawings from your sheets shall Stocks and subscriptions pour on ev'ry side, And of one beauty many blunders make;
Till all the demon makes his full descent Load some vain church with old theatric state;
| A certain truth, which many buy too dear;, There (so the devil ordiin'd) one Cbristmas-tide Soinething there is more needful than expence, Mly good old lady catch'd a cold, and died. And something previous ev'n to taste- 'tis sense:
A nymph of quality admires our knight ; Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, He marries, bows at court, and grows polite; And, and tho' no science, fairly worth the seven: Leaves ibedull cits, and joins (to please the fain) A light, which in yourself you must perceire ; Tic well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air; Jones and Le Nôtre have it not in give. First, for his son a gay commissiou buys,
To build, to plant, whatever you intend, Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a dnel dies. To rear the column, or the archi to bend, His daughter Aaunts a viscount's tawdry wife; JTo swell the terrace, or to sink the grot; She bears a coronet and p--x for life.
In all, let nature never be forgot ; In Britain's senate he a seat obrains,
But treat the goddess like a modest fair, And one more pensioner St Stephen gains. Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare; My lady falls to play: so ball her chance, | Let not each beauty ev'ry where be spied, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; Where half the skill is decently to hide. The llouse in peach hiin, Coningsby harangties; He gains all points who recently confounds, The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs; Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds. Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own, Consult the genius of the place in all; · Ilis westh, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown; JThat tells the waters or to rise or fall;
The devil and the king divide the prize, Or help th'anıbitious hill the heavens to scale, And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies. Or scoops in circling theatres the vale;
Calls in the country, catching op'ning glades, Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul, But soft - by regular approach --not yet-
Without it, proud Versailles. thy glory falls ; To all their dated backs he turns you round, And Nero's terraces desert their walls :
These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, Lo, some are vellum ; and the rest as good, Lo! Cobham comes, and fioats them with a lake; For all his lordship knows, but they are wood. Or ent wide views thro' mountains to the plain, For Locke or Milion 'tis in vain to look ; You 'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again. These shelves admit not any modern book. Esn in an ornament iis place remark,
And now the chapel's silver bell you hear, Norin an hermitage set Dr. Clarke.
That summons you to all the pride of pray'r: Behold Villario's ten years toil complete; Light qnirks of music, broken and uneven, His Quincunx darkens, his Espaliers meet; Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven. The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, On painter ceilings you devoutly stare, And strength of shade contends with strength of Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, A waving glow the bloomy beds display, Flight; Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, Blushing in bright diversities of day,
And bring all Paradise before your eye. With silver-quiv'ring rills meander'd o'er - To rest the cushion and soft dean invite, Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more; Who never mentions hell to ears polite. Tird of the scene parterres and fountains yield, But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; He finds at last he better likes a field.
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall: Thro' his young woorls how pleas'd Sabinus The rich buffet well-color'd serpents grace, Or sate delighted in the thick’ning shade, stray’d, And gaping Tritong spew to wash your face. With annual joy the redd'ning shoots to greet, Is this a dinner? this a genial room? Or see the stretching branches long too meet! No, 'tis a temple, and a hetacomb! His son's fine taste an op'ner vista loves, A solemn sacrifice, perform'd in state; Foe to the dryads of his father's groves; You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views, So quick retires each flying course, you 'd swear With all the mournful family of yews;
Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there. The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made, Between each act the trembling salvers ring, Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade. From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the king.
At Timon's villa let us pass a day, saway !" In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state, Where all cry out, “What sums are thrown And complaisantly help'd to all I hate. So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my lcare, Soft and agreeable come never there
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught I curse such lavish cost, and little skill. As brings all Brubdignag before your thought. And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill ! To compass this, his building is a town,
Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed ; His pond an ocean, his parterre a down : Health to himself, and to his infants bread Who but must laugh, the master when he secs, The lab'rer bears : what his hard heart denies, A puny insect, shiv'ring at a breeze !
His charitable vanity supplies. L^, what huge heaps of littleness around ! Apother age shall see the golden ear The whole a labor'd quarry above ground. Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Two Cupids squirt before a lake behind Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd, Improses the keenness of the northern wind. And laughing Ceres re-assure ihe land. Ilis gardens next your admiration call;
Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil? On ev'ry side you look, behold the wall! Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like No pleasing intricacies intervene,
l”Tis use alone that sanctities expence, Boyle. No artful wildness to perplex the scene ;
And splendor borrows all her ravs from sense. Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, His father's acres who enjoys in peace, And half the platform just reflects the other. Or makes his neighbour glad, if he increase ; The suff'ring eye inverted nature sees,
| Whose cheerful tenants ble-s their rearly toil, Trues cut to statues, statues thick as trees ; Yet to their lord owe miore than to the soil ; With here a fountain never to be play'd; Whose ainple lawns are not asham'd to fced. And therea surruner-house that knows no shade; The milky heifer and deserving steed; Here Amphiurite sails thro' myrtle bow'rs; (Whose rising forests, not for pride or show, There gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs; But future buildings, future naries, grow :
Let his plantations stretch from down to down, And Curio, restless by the fair one's side, First shade a country, and then raisc a town. Sigbus for an Orho, and neglects his bride.
You too proceed! make falling arts your care, Theiss is the vanity, the learning thine : Erect new wonders, and the old repair; Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine, Jones and Palladio to themselves restore, Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view, And he whate'er Vitruvius was before : | And all her fades garinents bloom a-new. Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage; (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd),| These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage : Bids harbours open, public ways extend ; The verse and sculpture bure an equal part, Bid temples, worthicr of the Goul, ascend; Anil art reflected images to art. Bid the broad arcin the dang'rous flood contain, Oh when shall Britain, conscious of berclaiin, The mole projected break ihe roaring main; Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? Back to his bounds their subject sưa command, In living medals see her wars enrollid, And roll obedient rivers thro’ the land; And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold? These honors peace to happy Britain brings : Here, rising bold, the patrio's honest face; These are imperial works, and worthy kings. There, warriors frowning in historic brass :
| Then future ages with delight shall see
How Plato's, Bacon's Newton's looks agree; 818. Epistle to Mr. Addison, occasioned ly Or in fair series laurellid bards be shown,
his Dialogues on Medals. Pope. | A Virgil there, and here an Addison. See the wild waste of all-devouring years! Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears. On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine ; With nodding arches, broken temples spread! With aspect open shall erect his head, The very lombs now vanish'd like their dead! And round the orb in lasting notes be read, Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoilid, “Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, Where, mix'd with slayes, the groaning martyr “ In action faithful, and in honor clear; - toild:
“ Who broke no promise, seri'd no private end, Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, " Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend: Now drain'd a distant country of her foods : |“ Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd, Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, “ Ind prais d, unenvied, by the Muse he lor'd." Statues of men scarce less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mould'ring age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage.
$ 19. Epistle to Dr. Arruthnot, leing the Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire,
Prologue to the Satires. Pope. And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.
P. SHut, shut the door, good John, fatigu'd Perhaps, by its own ruin sav'd from flaine,
I said, Some buried marble half preservis a name; Tye up the knocker; say I 'in sick, I'm dead. That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue, The Dog-star rages ! nay 'uis past a doubt, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.
Ali Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out : Ambition sigh'd : she found it vain to trust Hire in each eye, and papers in each hand, The faithless column and the crumbling bust: They fave, recite, and madden round the land. Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore What walls can guard me, or what shades can to shore,
glide; Their rains perish'd, and their place no more! They pierce my thickets, thro' my grot they Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design, By lanil, by waier, they renew the charge; And all her trimnphy shrink into a coin. They stop the chariot, and they board the barge, A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps; No place is sacred, not the Church is free, Bencath her palm here sad Julea weeps. Ern Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me: Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, Then from the Mint walks forth the man of And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; Happy! lo catch me just at dinner time. (rhyme, And small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd, Is there a Parson, much bemus'd in beer, And little eagles wave their wings in gold. A maudlin Poetess, a rhyming Peer,
The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame, A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Thro'climes andages bears each forin and name; Who pens a Stanza when he should engross? In one short view subjected to our eye,
Is there, who, lock'd from inkand paper, scrants Gods, emp'rors, heroes, sages, beauties, lic. With desp'rate charcoal round his darken'd wall: With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, | All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain Th'inscription value, but the rust adore. Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. This the blue varnish, that the green endears, Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, The sacrel rust of twice ten hundred years. Impuies to me and niy damn'd works the cause; To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes ; Poor Cornus sees his frantie wife clope; One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. And curses Wit, and Poetry, and Pope. [long Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'l, Friend to my Life! (which did not you proCan taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd The world had wanted many an idle song,)..
What Drops or Nostrum can this plague reniove, | Destroy his fib or sophistry in vain,
Does not one table Bavins still admit?
Still Sappho-A. Hold, for God's sake--you 'H This savingcounsel, “ keep your piece nine years.' ottend,
Nine years! cries he, who high in Drury-lane, No names--be calm-learn prudence of a friend : Lulld by soft Zephyrs thro' the broken pane, I too could write, and I am twice as tall; fall. Rhynes ere he wakes, and prints before Term But foes like theseP.One Flatt'rer's worse than Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends; (ends, Of all iad creatures, if the learn'd are right,
The piece, you think, is incorrect? why takeit; It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. !Iain all submission, what you'd have it inakeit.'| A fool quite angry is quite intiocent :
Three tbings another's niodest wishes bound, Alas! 'iis ten times worse when they repent. My Friendship, and a Prologue, and Teu Pound. One dedicates in high heroic prose,
Picholeon sends to me: you know his Grace: And ridicules beyond a hundred fues : I want a Patrou ; ask him for a Place. Qge from all Grub-street will my fame defend, Pitholeon libell'd ine but here's a letter ster. And, more abusive, calls himsell my friend.
Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no bet. This prints my Lettors, that expects a bribe,
Bless me! a packet. - "'Tis a stranger sues, I cough like Ilorace, and, iho' lean, I'm short.
[Lintot.'| And when I die, be sure you let me know . And shame the fools-Your int'rest, Sir, with Great Homer died three thousand years ago. Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too! Why did I write! what sin to me unknown • Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch.' (inuch: Dipp'd me in ink, my parent's, or my own? All iny deniurs but double his attacks;
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, At last he whispers, · Do; and we go snácks.' li lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door: I left no calling for this idle trade, Sir, let me see your works and you no inore. No duty broke, no father disobey d; (Wife,
'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring The Muse but serv'd to ease some frienil, not (Midas, a sacred person and a king),
To help me thro' this long disease, muy Life; llis very Minister who spicd thein first
To second, Arbuthnot! thy Art and Care, (Some say his Queen) was fored to speak, or And teach ihe being you preserv'd to bear. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case,' (burst. But why then publish? 'Granville the polite, When ev'ry coxcomb perks them in iny face? And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; 4. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dang'rous Well-natur'd Garth, inflain'd with early praise, things,
| And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; I'd never name Queens, Ministers, or Kings; The courtly Tallot, Somers, Sheffield readi" Keep close to Ears, and those let Asses prick, Ev'n initred Rochester would nod the head; Tis nothing-P. Nothing, if they bite and kick? And St. John's seif (great Dryden's friend he Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, With open arms receiv'd one Poet wore. [fore) That secret to each fool, that he's an Ass: [lie? | Happy iny studies, when by these approva! The truth once told (and wherefore should we Happier their Author when by these belov'd! The Queen of Midas slept, and so may 1. From these the world will julge of men and You think this cruel ? take it for a rule,
book:, No creature smarts so little as a fool.
Not from the Burnets, Oldmirons, and Cooks. Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break, Soft were my numliers, who could take offence Thou unconcern'd caust hear the mighty crack : While pure Description held the place of Sense? Pit, box, and gall’ry in convulsions huri'd, I Like gentle Fanny's was my flow'ry theme, Thou stand'st inshook amidst a bursting world. A painted mistress, or a purling stream. Who shamesa Scribbler? breakonecobweb thro', Yet then did Gildon draw bis venal quill; Hle spins the slight self-pleasing thread anew : I wish'd the man a dinner, and sat still.
Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret; l What tho'my name stood rubric on the walls, I never answer'd, I was not in debt.
Or plaster'd posts, with claus, in capitals ? If want provok'd, or madness made them print, Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers load, I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mini On wings of winds came flying all abroad?
Did some more sober Critic come abroall; I sought no homage from the race that write: If wrong, I smild; if right, I kisa'd the rod. I kepi, like Asian monarchs, from their sight: Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence; Poems I heeded (now be-rhym'd so long) And all they want is spirit, lasie, and sense. Nomore than thou,greatGeorge! a birth-da song. Commas and points they set exactly right; I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd any dars, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Yel near one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, Vor, like a puppy, dangled thro' the town, From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tilalds; To fetch and carry sing-song up and down ; Each wightwho reads not, and but scansandspells, Noral rehearsals streat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, Each Word-catcher, that lives on syllables, With liandkerchief and orange at my side : Ev'n such small Critics some regard may claim, But sick of fops, and poetiv, and praie, Prescrv'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's pane. To Buto left the whole (asialian state. Pretty! in amber to olisive the forais
Proud, as d pollo on his forkad bill, Of hairs or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! Sat full-blown Bufo, puti'd by ev'ry quill; The things we know are neither rich nor rare, Fed with soft dedication all day long, But wonder how the devil they got there. llorare and he went hand in hand in song.
Were others angry: I excus'd then too ; His library (where busts of poets dead Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. And a true Pindar stood without a head) A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find ; Receii'd of wits an undistingush'd race, But each man's secret standard in his mind, Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place: That cauting-wcigit pride adds 10.einpriness, Much they, extoll'd his pictures, much his seal, This who can gratify? for who can guess ? And fla ter'd w'ry day, and some days eat: The Bard whom pilford Pastoral renown, "Fill grown more frugal in his riper days, Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, lle paid some bards with port,andsomewithpraise; Just writes to make his barrenne s appear, To some a dry rehearsal was assign'd; . And strains, from hard bound brains, eight lines Aud others (harder still) he paid in kind. a-rcar; .
. i i. . Drydew alove (what wonder!) came not nigh; He, who'still wanting, tho' he lives on theft, Dryden alone escap'd this judging eve: Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left : But still the grout have kindness in reserve ; · And He who now to sense,now nonsense leaning, le helped to bury whom he help'd to starve. Means not, but blunders round about a meaning,l. May some choice patron bless each grey goose And Hc, whose fustian 's so sublindly bad, May ev'ry Bavius liave his Bufo still! Tquill! Jt is not poetry, but prose run madi.
So when a statesman vants a day's defence, All these iny modest Satire vade translate, Or cury holds a whole week's war with sense : And own'd that nine such Poets made a Tate. Or-simo le pride for flaii'ry makes demands, How did they fume, and stamp, and roar and May Dance by Dunce be ishistled off my hands! And swear,not Addison himself was safe. Tchafe! Blese be the great for tliose they take awas, Peace to all such! but were there oue whose And those they lefi me, for they left me Gay; fires
Left me to see neglected Genius bloom, True Genius kindles, and fair Fame inspires; Veglected die, and tell it on his tomb: Blest with each talent and ench art 10 please, Of all ihy, blameless life the sole retur, And burn to write, converse, and live with case: My Verse and Queen-b'ry weeping o'er the urn. Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Olet mic live niv own, and die so too! Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, (Tv live and die is all I have to do): View him with scornful, vet with jezdous eyes, Maintain a Poet's dignity and easc, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; And see what friends, and read what books I please. Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, Abore a patrou, tho I condescend And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; Sometimes to call a minister my friend. Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, I was not born for courts or great affairs : Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
I pay my debts, beliere, and say iny pray'rs; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend, Can sleep without a poem in my head, A tiai'rons foe, and a suspicious friend ; Nor know if Dennis be alive or dead. Dreading er'n Fools, by Flatterers besieg'd, Why am I ask'l what next shall see the light? And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; Heavens! was I born for nothing but to write! Like Cato, gives his little Senate laws, Has life no joys for me? or (to be grave) And sit attentive to his own applau-e;
Have I no friend to serve, no soul to save: [doubt While Wits and Templars er'ry sentence raise, “I found him close with Swift" - ludeed? no And wonder with a fooli h face of praise (Cries prating Ball.us) something will come out. Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ?: 'Tis all in vain, deny it as I will; Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ? No, sach a Genius never can lie still;'.