Thou ftood'ft (an Indian king in fize and hue)
Thy unexhaufted fhop was our Peru.

Why did 'Change-Alley waste thy precious hours
Among the fools who gap'd for golden showers ?
No wonder if we found fome poets there,

Who live on fancy, and can feed on air;

No wonder they were caught by South-Sea schemes,
Who ne'er enjoy'd a guinea, but in dreams;
No wonder they their third fubfcriptions fold,
For millions of imaginary gold;

No wonder, that their fancies wild can frame
Strange reafons, that a thing is ftill the fame,

Though chang'd throughout in substance and in name.
But you (whofe judgement fcorns poetic flights)
With contracts furnish boys for paper-kites.

Let Vulture Hopkins ftretch his rufty throat,
Who'd ruin thousands for a fingle groat.
I know thou fpurn'ft his mean, his fordid mind;
Nor with ideal debts would'st plague mankind.
Why ftrive his greedy hands to grasp at more?
The wretch was born to want, whofe foul is poor.
Madmen alone their empty dreams pursue,

And ftill believe the fleeting vifion true;
They fell the treasure which their flumbers get,
Then wake, and fancy all the world in debt.
If to inftruct thee all my reafons fail,

Yet be diverted by this moral tale.

Through fam'd Moorfields extends a spacious feat, Where mortals of exalted wit retreat;

7

}

Where,

Where, wrapp'd in contemplation and in ftraw,
The wifer few from the mad world withdraw.
There, in full opulence, a banker dwelt,
Who all the joys and pangs of riches felt:
His fide-board glitter'd with imagin'd plate ;
And his proud fancy held a vaft eftate.

As on a time he pafs'd the vacant hours,
In raifing piles of straw and twisted bowers;
A poet enter'd, of the neighbouring cell,
And with fix'd eyes observ'd the structure well;
A fharpen'd fkewer crofs his bare fhoulders bound
A tatter'd rug, which dragg'd upon the ground.

The banker cry'd, " Behold my castle-walls,
"My ftatues, gardens, fountains, and canals;
"With land of twenty thousand acres round!
"All these I fell thee for ten thousand pound."
The bard with wonder the cheap purchase saw,
So fign'd the contract (as ordains the law).

The banker's brain was cool'd, the mift grew clear; The vifionary scene was loft in air.

He now the vanish'd prospect understood,

And fear'd the fancied bargain was not good: Yet, loath the fum entire fhould be destroy'd, "Give me a penny, and thy contract 's void."

The startled bard with eye indignant frown'd. "Shall 1, ye Gods (he cries) my debts compound !” So faying, from his rug the skewer he takes, And on the stick ten equal notches makes; With just resentment flings it on the ground; "There, take my tally of ten thousand pound!" EPISTLE

03

Ev'n in mid ocean often didst thou quail,

And oft' lift up thy holy eye and hand, Praying the Virgin dear, and faintly choir, Back to the port to bring thy bark entire.

III.

Chear up, my friend! thy dangers now are o'er ;
Methinks nay, sure the rising coasts appear;
Hark! how the guns falute from either shore,
As thy trim veffel cuts the Thames so fair :
Shouts anfwering fhouts from Kent and Effex roar,
And bells break loud through every guft of air:
Bonfires do blaze, and bones and cleavers ring,
As at the coming of fome mighty king.

IV.

Now pafs we Gravefend with a friendly wind,
And Tilbury's white fort, and long Blackwall;
Greenwich, where dwells the friend of human kind,
More vifited than or her park or hall,
Withers the good, and (with him ever join'd)
Facetious Disney, greet thee first of all :

I fee his chimney smoke, and hear him fay,
Duke *! that's the room for Pope, and that for Gay.

V.

Come in, my friends' here fhall ye dine and lie,
And here fhall breakfast, and here dine again;
And fup, and breakfast on, (if ye comply)
For I have ftill fome dozens of champaign:
His voice ftill leffens as the hip fails by ;

He waives his hand to bring us back in vain ;
*He was usually called "Duke Dilney." N.

For

For now I fee, I fee proud London's fpires;
Greenwich is loft, and Deptford-dock retires.

VI.

Oh, what a concourse swarms on yonder quay !
The sky re-echoes with new shouts of joy:
By all this fhow, I ween, 'tis Lord Mayor's day;
I hear the voice of trumpet and hautboy.
No, now I fee them near. - Oh, these are they

Who come in crouds to welcome thee from Troy. Hail to the bard, whom long as loft we mourn'd; From fiege, from battle, and from ftorm, return'd! VII.

Of goodly dames, and courteous knights, I view

The filken petticoat, and broider'd veft;

Yea peers, and mighty dukes, with ribbands blue,
(True blue, fair emblem of unstained breast.)
Others I fee, as noble, and more true,

By no court-badge diftinguish'd from the reft:
First fee I Methuen, of fincerest mind,
As Arthur * grave, as foft as woman-kind.

VII.

What lady's that, to whom he gently bends?

Who knows not her? ah! thofe are Wortley's eyes: How art thou honour'd, number'd with her friends ! For the diftinguishes the good and wife.

*This perfon is mentioned in Pope's Epiftle to Arbuthnot, ver. 23.

"Arthur, whofe giddy fon neglects the laws,

"Imputes to me, and my damn'd works, the caufe."

The

See Rochefter approving nods his head *,
And ranks one modern with the mighty dead.
XV.

Carleton and Chandos thy arrival grace;

Hanmer, whofe eloquence th' unbiass'd sways; Harley, whofe goodness opens in his face,

And shews his heart the feat where virtue stays. Ned Blount advances next, with bufy pace, In hafte, but fauntering, hearty in his ways: I fee the friendly Carylls come by dozens, Their wives, their uncles, daughters, fons, and cousins. XVI.

Arbuthnot there I fee, in phyfick's art,

As Galen learn'd, or famed Hippocrate ;
Whofe company drives forrow from the heart,
As all disease his medicines diffipate:
Kneller amid the triumph bears his part t,
Who could (were mankind loft) anew create :
What can'th' extent of his vaft foul confine?
A painter, critick, engineer, divine!

XVII.

Thee Jervas hails, robust and debonair,

Now have [we] conquer'd Homer, friends, he cries: Darteneuf, grave joker, joyous Ford is there ‡, And wondering Maine, fo fat with laughing eyes,

*So in the Epiftle to Dr. Arbuthnot,

Ev'n mitred Rochester would nod the head." S. + This is no more than a compliment to the vanity of Sir Godfrey, which Pope and other wits were always putting to the ftrongeft trials. S.

+ Charles Ford, efq; writer of the Gazette. S.

5

(Gay,