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just as gay, at council, in a ring f mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king. o wit to flatter, left of all his store!
o fool to laugh at, which he valued more. here, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, nd fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. His grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, nd well (he thought) advis'd him, "Live like me!" swell his grace reply'd, "Like you, Sir John! hat I can do, when all I have is gone." esolve me, Reason, which of these are worse, ant with a full, or with an empty purse? by life more wretched, Cutler, was confess'd, rise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd? itler saw tenants break, and houses fall, or very want he could not build a wall. is only daughter in a stranger's power, r very want; he could not pay a dower. few grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd was very want that sold them for two pound. hat! ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end, nish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend? hat but a want, which you perhaps think mad, t numbers feel, the want of what he had! tler and Brutus dying, both exclaim, Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name!" , for such worth are other worlds prepar'd? are they both, in this, their own reward? knotty point! to which we now proceed. t you are tir'd- I'll tell a tale. B. Agreed. P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies ke a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;
ere dwelt a citizen of sober fame,
plain good man, and Balaam was his name; ligious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;
word would pass for inore than he was worth. e solid dish his week-day meal affords, d added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's: istant at church, and 'Change; his gains were
sgivings rare, save farthings to the poor. The devil was piqu'd such saintship to behold, d long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old; Satan now is wiser than of yore,
d tempts by making rich, not making poor. Rous'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds sweep surge, and plunge his father in the deep; en full against his Cornish lands they roar,
two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word; dlo! two puddings smok'd upon the board. Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,
honest factor stole a gem away: pledg'd it to the knight, the knight had wit, kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. ne scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, 'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; ere once I went to church, I'll now go twiced am so clear too of all other vice."
tempter saw his time: the work he ply'd; cks and subscriptions pour on every side,
all the demon makes his full descent one abundant shower of cent per cent, ks deep within him, and possesses whole, en dubs director, and secures his soul. Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, cribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he call'd a blessing, now was wit,
There (so the devil 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, 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.
OF THE USE OF RICHES.
The vanity of expense in people of wealth and quality. The abuse of the word taste. That the first principle and foundation in this, as in every thing else, is good sense. 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. 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 be but perverted into something burthensome and ridiculous. A description of the false taste of magnificence; the first grand errour of which is, to imagine that greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the proportion and harmony of the whole; and the second, either in joining together parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the repetition of the same too frequently. A word or two of false taste in books, in music, in painting, even in preaching and prayer, and lastly in entertainments. 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. What are the proper objects of magnificence, and a proper field for the expense of great men; and finally the great and public works which become a prince,
'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
The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,
A waving glow the bloomy beds display,
With silver-quivering rills meander'd o'er-
For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse,
Without it, proud Versailles! thy glory falls; And Nero's terraces desert their walls:
Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus stray'd,
Or sate delighted in the thickening shade,
Who random drawings from your sheets shall take, One boundless green, or flourish'd carpet views,
And of one beauty many blunders make;
Oft have you hinted to your brother peer,
To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
Still follow sense, of every art the soul,
The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made,
Where all cry out, "What sums are thrown away!"
My lord advances with majestic mien,
Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes.
His study with what authors is it stor'd?
For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look,
And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
A solemn sacrifice perform'd in state,
And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,
Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed;
Another age shall see the golden ear Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.
Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle? 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense, And splendour borrows all her rays from sense.
His father's acres who enjoys in peace, Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase: Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil, Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil; Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed The milky heifer and deserving steed; Whose rising forests, not for pride or show, But future buildings, future navies, grow: Let his plantations stretch from down to down, First shade a country, and then raise a town.
You too proceed! make falling arts your care, Erect new wonders, and the old repair; Jones and Palladio to themselves restore, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before : Till kings call forth the ideas of your mind, (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd,) Bid harbours open, public ways extend, Bid temples worthier of the God ascend; Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain, The mole projected break the roaring main; Back to his bounds their subject sea command, And roll obedient rivers through the land; These honours, Peace to happy Britain brings; These are imperial works, and worthy kings.
SEE the wild waste of all-devouring years;
Ambition sigh'd: she found it vain to trust
Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more!
The medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine:
Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view, And all her faded garlands bloom anew. Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage : These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage: The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art.
Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enroll'd, And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold? Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face; There, warriors frowning in historic brass? Then future ages with delight shall see How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; Or in fair series laurel'd bards be shown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison:
Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
And round the orb in lasting notes be read,
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide.
Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer,
A clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Friend to my life! (which did you not prolong,
I sit with sad civility; I read
This saving counsel, "Keep your piece nine years." "Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends: "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it ; I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it."
Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his grace: I want a patron; ask him for a place." Pitholeon libell'd me- "but here's a letter Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine, He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine." Bless me! a packet. · -"'Tis a stranger sues, A Virgin Tragedy, an Orphan Muse." If I dislike it, 66 Furies, death, and rage!" If I approve," Commend it to the stage." There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends. [it, Fir'd that the house reject him, "'Sdeath! I'll print And shame the fools-your interest, sir, with Lintot."
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much: "Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch." All my demurs but double his attacks:
At last he whispers, "Do; and we go snacks." Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door, "Sir, let me see your works and you no more."
'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, (Midas, a sacred person and a king,) His very minister, who spy'd them first, (Some say his queen,) was forc'd to speak, or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face? 4. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous things,
I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings;
You think this cruel? Take it for a rule,
He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
No names-be calm learn prudence of a friend:
I too could write, and I am twice as tall;
A fool quite angry is quite innocent:
There are, who to my person pay their court:
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
No duty broke, no father disobey'd;
But why then publish? Granville the polite, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise, And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, Ev'n mitred Rochester wouid nod the head, And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend before) With open arms received one poet more. Happy my studies, when by these approv'd! Happier their author, when by these belov'd! From these the world will judge of men and books, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks.
Soft were my numbers: who could take offence While pure description held the place of sense? Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, A painted mistress, or a purling stream. Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; I wish'd the man a dinner, and sate still. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret: I never answer'd, I was not in debt. If want provok'd, or madness made them print, I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
Did some more sober critic come abroad; If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod. Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. Commas and points they set exactly right, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite. Yet ne'er one sprig of laurel grac'd these ribalds, From slashing Bentley down to pidling Tibalds. Each wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, Each word-catcher, that lives on syllables, Ev'n such small critics some regard may claim, Preserv'd in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. Pretty in amber to observe the forms
Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! The things we know are neither rich nor rare, But wonder how the devil they got there.
Were others angry: I excus'd them too; Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find; But each man's secret standard in his mind, That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, This, who can gratify? for who can guess? The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, [year; And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines He, who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: And he, who, now to sense, now nonsense leaning, Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad: All these, my modest satire bad translate, And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! And swear, not Addison himself was safe.
Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; Blest with each talent and each art to please, And born to write, converse, and live with ease: Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise; Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Dreading ev'n fools, by flatterers besieg'd, And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; Like Cato, give his little senate laws, And sit attentive to his own applause; While wits and templars every sentence raise, And wonder with a foolish face of praiseWho but must laugh, if such a man there be! Who would not weep, if Atticus were he!
What, though my name stood rubric on the walls, Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals? Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, On wings of winds came flying all abroad? I sought no homage from the race that write; I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight: Poems I heeded (now berhym'd so long) No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, To spread about the itch of verse and praise; Nor, like a puppy, daggled through the town, To fetch and carry sing-song up and down; Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, With handkerchief and orange at my side! But, sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. Proud as Apollo on his forked hill, Sate full-blown Bufo, puff'd by every quill; Fed with soft dedication all day long, Horace and he went hand in hand in song. His library (where busts of poets dead And a true Pindar stood without a head) Receiv'd of wits an undistinguish'd race, Who first his judgment ask'd, and then a place; Much they extoll'd his pictures, much his seat, And flatter'd every day, and some days eat; Till, grown more frugal in his riper days, He paid some bards with port, and some with praise;