There is a time when poets will grow dull: Soon as I enter at my country door, 200 My mind resumes the thread it dropp'd before; 205 210 If, when the more you drink, the more you crave, 215 You tell the doctor; when the more you have, 221 218 When golden angels. The angel, a gold coin, given by those who came to be touched by the royal hand for the evil. 222 The whole of this passage alludes to a dedication by Mr., afterwards bishop Kennet, to the duke of Devonshire, to whom he was chaplain. Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit, 226 A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit, The wisest man might blush, I must agree, If D * * * loved sixpence more than he. you 230 If there be truth in law, and use can give A property, that's yours on which live: Delightful Abscourt, if its fields afford Their fruits to you, confesses you its lord: All Worldly's hens, nay, partridge, sold to town; His venison too, a guinea makes 235 your own; He bought at thousands, what with better wit You purchase as you want, and bit by bit. Now, or long since, what difference will be found? You pay a penny, and he paid a pound. 241 Heathcote himself, and such large-acred men, Lords of fat E'sham, or of Lincoln-fen, Buy every stick of wood that lends them heat; Buy every pullet they afford to eat; Yet these are wights, who fondly call their own Half that the devil o'erlooks from Lincoln town. The laws of God, as well as of the land, Abhor, a perpetuity should stand: 246 Estates have wings, and hang in fortune's power Loose on the point of every wavering hour, Ready, by force, or of your own accord, 250 By sale, at least by death, to change their lord. 'Man?' and 'for ever?' wretch! what wouldst thou have? Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave. 232 Delightful Abscourt; a farm over-against Hamptoncourt.-Pope. All vast possessions, (just the same the case, 260 And trees, and stones, and farms, and farmer fall. Gold, silver, ivory, vases sculptured high, Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian die, There are who have not, and, thank Heaven, there are, 266 Who, if they have not, think not worth their care. Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find Two of a face, as soon as of a mind. 270 Why, of two brothers, rich and restless one Ploughs, burns, manures, and toils from sun to sun; The other slights, for women, sports, and wines, All Townshend's turnips, and all Grosvenor's mines; Why one like Bu-, with pay and scorn content, Bows and votes on, in court and parliament; 275 273 All Townshend's turnips. Lord Townshend, secretary of state to George I. and II. He was fond of agriculture; and was peculiarly proud of his improvements in turnips. 274 One like Bu-. Bubb Doddington, already mentioned, a contemptible fellow, who had the folly to publish his own contemptibility. 280 One, driven by strong benevolence of soul, grace 285 277 Fly like Oglethorpe. Warton, with ridiculous panegyric, pronounces Oglethorpe at once a great hero and a great legislator.' He had served a good deal in the German armies under Eugene; and on his return to England, projected a colony in Georgia; for which he set out, with the two Wesleys in his train. He obtained a charter for his colony, and exhibited some Indian chiefs at St. James's. In 1745, as major-general, he commanded a division of cavalry under the duke of Cumberland; but offending him by the apparently slight negligence of taking up his quarters, one night of the march, on the flank of the army, when he was supposed to be in the front, was summarily deprived of his command. A court-martial acquitted him; but he was employed no more. He thenceforth spent his life roving through London society, enjoying and enjoyed, mingling much with men of literature, laughing at all the generals of his day, and indignant, to the last, at the duke of Cumberland. He died, at a very advanced age, with the reputation of a brave man, a man of intelligence, and a man of pleasantry: but higher qualities are required to compound either great heroes or great legislators. 'Tis one thing madly to disperse my store; What is 't to me, (a passenger, God wot!) 'But why all this of avarice? I have none.' Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appal? 295 300 305 Not the black fear of death, that saddens all? 309 319 |