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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.
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 plaster, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villiers lies-alas ! how chang'd from him,
That life of pleasure and that soul of whim?
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury and love;
Or just as gay at council, in a ring
Of mimic 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 fame, this lord of useless thousands ends !

His grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, And well (he thought) advis'd 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 gray hairs his reverend temples crown'd;
'Twas very want that sold them for two pound.
What! ey'n deny'd 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 prepar'd?
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, 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.

Rous'd 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 smok'd upon the board.

Asleep and naked as an Indian lay An honest factor stole a gem away : He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought : • I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat;

Where once I went to church I'll now go twice And 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 show'r 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 bit. Things change their titles as our manners turn : His compting-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 St. 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 p-x for life. In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, And one more pensioner St. 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.

To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington.

PART II. 'T'S 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.' Heav'n 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 expence, 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 ek'd with ends of wall, Then clap four slices of pilaster on't, That lac'd 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.

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer
A certain truth, which many buy too dear:
Something there is more needful than expence,
And something previous ev'n to taste-'tis sense ;
Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And though no science, fairly worth the seven;
A light which in yourself you must perceive;
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the column, or the arch to bend,
To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot,
In all, let Nature never be forgot;
But treat the goddess like a modest fair,
Nor over-dress, por leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty every where be spied,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points who pleasingly confounds,
Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.

Consult the genius of the place in all;
That tells the waters or to rise or fall;
Or helps the ambitious hill the heav'ns to scale,
Or scoops in circling theatres the vale;
Calls in the country, catches opening glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades;
Now breaks, or now directs, the intending lines ;
Paints as you plant, and as you work designs.

Still follow sense, of every art the soul;
Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance :
Nature shall join you ; time shall make it grow
A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow.

Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls,
And Nero's terraces desert their walls :
The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,
Lo! Cobham comes and floats them with a lake :

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