Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue 271 275 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! 281 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: 285 A without it might wait for ever. Kyrle pointed out the way, and by his personal exertions induced more opulent men to follow:the character amply deserved the panegyric. Kyrle in every considerable village of England would effect more for the comfort, health, and beauty of the country, than all the labors, powerful as they are, of general legislation. Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between; own, Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone. Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend, 295 In the worst inn's worst room, with mat halfhung, The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, 300 That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim! 306 305 Great Villiers lies. This lord, yet more famous for his vices than his misfortunes, having been possessed of about £50,000 a year, and passed through many of the highest posts in the kingdom, died in the year 1687, in a remote inn in Yorkshire, reduced to the utmost misery.-Pope. 307 Cliveden. A delightful palace on the banks of the Thames, built by the duke of Buckingham.-Pope. 308 Shrewsbury. The countess of Shrewsbury, a woman abandoned to gallantries. The earl her husband was killed by the duke of Buckingham in a duel; and it has been said, that during the combat she held the duke's horses in the habit of a page.-Pope. Or just as gay, at council, in a ring No fool to laugh at, which he valued more! 310 His grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, 315 And well, he thought, advised him :- Live like me.' 32 As well his grace replied:-'Like you, sir John? 325 Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend? 330 What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Yet numbers feel,-the want of what he had? P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; 340 A plain good man, and Balaam was his name; sure; His givings rare, save farthings to the poor. 345 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; 351 And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Roused 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, 355 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 smoked upon the board. 339 Where London's column. The Monument, built in memory of the fire of London, with an inscription importing that city to have been burnt by the papists.-Pope. 340 Lifts the head, and lies. A line unworthy of the poetic dexterity of Pope: but the apologue of sir Balaam is admirable. Warton compares it to the exquisite history' of Eugenio and Crosodes in one of Swift's Intelligencers.' But its strength, clearness, and consecutiveness of story, are unrivalled in modern versification. Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away: 361 He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit; So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eased 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!' 6 The tempter saw his time: the work he plied; Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side; 370 Till all the demon makes his full descent In one abundant shower of cent per cent: Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole; Then dubs director, and secures his soul. 375 381 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 counting-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, 385 389 The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air: |