Whose table, wit or modest merit share,
Un-elbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or play'r ?
Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part,
To ease th' oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart?
Where-e'er he shines, oh 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 :
Pleased Vaga ecchoes thro' 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 thro' the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose cause-way 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 :
Behold yon alms-house, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate;
Him portion'd 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 attornies, now an useless race.
"Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
"What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do.
"Oh say, what sums that gen'rous hand supply?
"What mines, to swell that boundless charity?"
Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
This man possest-five hundred pounds a year.
Blush grandeur, blush! proud Courts withdraw your blaze!
Ye little stars! hide your diminished rays.
"And what? no monument, inscription, stone?
"His race, his form, his name almost unknown?"
Who builds a church to Go 1, and not to fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name:
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;
Should'ring 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 plaister, and the walls of dung.
On once a flock bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-ty'd curtains never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villers 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 mimick 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 thousand ends.
His Grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, “Live like me."
As well his Grace reply'd, "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 pow'r,
For very want; he could not pay a dow'r.
A few grey hairs his rev'rend temples crown'd,
'Twas very want that sold them for two pound.
What ev'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?
That knotty point, my Lord, shall I discuss,
Or tell a tale ?- A tale
Constant at church, and Change; his gains were sure,
His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
The Dev'l was piqu'd, 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.
Rouz'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 ship-wrecks bless the lucky shore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
He takes his chirping pint, he cracks his jokes:
"Live like your self," was soon my lady's word ;
And lo! two puddings smoak'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 six-pence 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 ply'd ;
Stocks and subscriptions pour on ev'ry side;
Till all the dæmon 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 hit.
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 Dev'l ordain'd) one Christmas-tide
My good old Lady, catch'd a cold, and dy'd.
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; Conningsby harrangues ;
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 EARL OF BURLINGTON.
THE extremes of avarice and profusion being treated of in the foregoing Epistle, this takes up one particular branch of the latter; the vanity of expence in people of wealth and quality. The abuse of the word taste, Ver. 13, that the first principle and foundation, in this as in everything else, is good sense, 40. 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, 50. 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 or ridiculous, 65, &c., to 90. 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, 93; and the second, either in joining together parts incoherent, or too minutely res mbling, or in the repetition of the Bame too frequently, 103, &c. A word or two of false taste in books, in musick, in painting, even in preaching and prayer, and lastly in entertainments, 125, &c. 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, 161 (recurring to what is laid down in the first book, Epist. 2, and in the Epistle preceding this, V. 165). What are the proper objects of magnificence, and a proper field for the expence of great men, 169, &c., and finally the great and publick works which become a Prince, 187 to the end.
RICHARD EARL OF BURLINGTON.
'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 chuse his pictures, music, meats:
He buys for Topham, drawings and designs,
For Fountain statues, and for Pembroke coins,
Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone,
And books for Mead, and rarities 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 dæmon 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 magn ficence!
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:
Or call the winds thro' 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 heav'n,
And tho' 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 terras, or to sink the grot;
In all, let Nature never be forgot.
But treat the Goddess like a modest fair,
Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare ;
Let not each beauty ev'ry where be spy'd,
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 th' ambitious hill the heav'n 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, th' intending lines,
Paints as you plant, and as you work, designs.
Begin with sense, of ev'ry 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 :
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