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Both fairly owning riches, in effect,
No grace of Heav'n, or token of the elect;
Giv'n to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil,
To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the devil.

B. What nature wants, commodious gold bestows; 'Tis thus we eat the bread another sows.

P. But how unequal it bestows observe ;
'Tis thus we riot, while who sow it starve:
What nature wants (a phrase I much distrust)
Extends to luxury, extends to lust :
Useful I grant, it serves what life requires,
But dreadful too, the dark assassin hires.

B. Trade it may help, society extend.
P. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend.
B. It raises armies in a nation's aid.

P. But bribes a senate, and the land's betray'd.
In vain may heroes fight and patriots rave,
If secret gold sap on from knave to knave.
Once, we confess, beneath the patriot's cloak
From the crack'd bag the dropping guinea spoke,
And jingling down the back-stairs, told the crew,
- Old Cato is as great a rogue as you.'
Blest paper-credit ! last and best supply !
That lends corruption lighter wings to fly!
Gold imp'd by thee, can compass hardest things,
Can pocket states, can fetch or carry kings;
A single leaf shall waft an army o'er,
Or ship off senates to some distant sbore ;
A leaf, like Sibyl's, scatter to and fro
Our fates and fortunes as the winds shall blow;
Pregnant with thousands flits the scrap unseen,
And silent sells a king or buys a queen..

Oh ! that such bulky bribes as all might see Still, as of old, incumber'd villainy! Could France or Rome divert our brave designs With all their brandies or with all their wines? What could they more than knights and 'squires

confound, Or water all the quorum ten miles round ?

A statesman's slumbers how this speech would spoil!
'Sir, Spain has sent a thousand jars of oil;
Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door ;
A hundred oxen at your levee roar.'

Poor avarice one torment more would find,
Nor could profusion squander all in kind :
Astride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet,
And Worldly crying coals from street to street,
Whom with a wig so wild and mien so maz'd
Pity mistakes for some poor tradesman craz'd.
Had Colepepper's whole wealth been hops and hogs,
Could he himself have sent it to the dogs ?
His grace will game: to White's a bull be led,
With spurning heels and with a butting head :
To White's be carried, as to ancient games,
Fair coursers, vases, and alluring dames.
Shall then Uxorio, if the stakes he sweep,
Bear home six whores, and make his lady weep?
Or soft Adonis, so perfum'd and fine,
Drive to St. James's a whole herd of swine ?
Oh filthy check on all industrious skill,
To spoil the nation's last great trade,-quadrille !
Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall,
What say you! B. Say? Why, take it, gold and all

P. What riches give us let us then inquire : Meat, fire, and clothes. B. What more? P. Meat,

clothes, and fire. Is this too little? would you more than live? Alas! 'tis more than Turner finds they give. Alas ! 'tis more than (all his visions past) Unhappy Wharton, waking, found at last! What can they give? to dying Hopkins heirs ? To Chartres vigour? Japhet nose and ears? Can they in gems bid pallid Hippia glow? In Fulvia's buckle ease the throbs below? Or heal, old Narses, thy obscener ail, With all the' embroidery plaster'd at thy tail ?-They might (were Harpax not too wise to spend) Give Harpax' self the blessing of a friend;

Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store,
Sees but a backward steward for the poor ;
This year a reservoir to keep and spare,
The next a fountain spouting through his heir,
In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst,
And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.

Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:
What though (the use of barbarous spits forgot)
His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot?
His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor'd,
With soups unbought, and salads, bless'd his board?
If Cotta liv'd on pulse, it was no more
Than bramins, saints, and sages, did before:
To cram the rich was prodigal expence;
And who would take the poor from Providence ?
Like some lone chartreux stands the good old hall,
Silence without, and fasts within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound,
No noontide bell invites the country round;
Tenants with sighs the smokeless tow'rs survey,
And turn the unwilling steeds another way;
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curse the sav'd candle and unopening door;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.

Not so his son; he mark'd this oversight, And then mistook reverse of wrong for right: (For what to shun will no great knowledge need, But what to follow is a task indeed !) Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise, More go to ruin fortunes than to raise. What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the capacious 'squire and deep divine! Yet no mean motive this profusion draws; His oxen perish in his country's cause; 'Tis George and liberty that crown the cup, And zeal for that great house which eats him up. The woods recede around the naked seat, The silvans groan-no matter-for the fleet :

Next goes his wool-to clothe our valiant bands;
Last, for his country's love, he sells his lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold trainbands, and burns a pope.
And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils!
In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his cause;
His thankless country leaves him to her laws.

The sense to value riches, with the art
To' enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,
Not meanly nor ambitiously pursued,
Not sunk by sloth, nor rais'd by servitude;
To balance fortune by a just expence,
Join with economy magnificence;
With splendour charity, with plenty health,
O teach us, Bathurst ! yet unspoil'd by wealth!
That secret rare, between the extremes to move
Of mad good-nature and of mean self-love.

B. To worth or want well-weigh'd be bounty giv'n, And ease or emulate the care of Heav'n : (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, 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 cheerful noon Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon ? Whose table wit or modest merit share, Un-elbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or play'r? Who copies your's or Oxford's better part, To ease the oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart? Where'er he shines, O Fortune! gild the scene, 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 :
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
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 sick, and solace to the swain,
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?
Whose seats the weary traveller repose ?
Who taught that heav'n-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 almshouse, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate :
Him portion's maids, apprentic'd orphans, blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes and gives.
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 attornjes, now an useless race.

B. Thrice happy man enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the pow'r 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 possess'd-five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw

your blaze; Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd 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:

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