Whofe table, wit, or modeft merit fhare,
Un-elbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player?
Who copies your's, or Oxford's better part,
To eafe th' opprefs'd, and raife the finking heart?
Where'er he fhines, oh fortune, gild the fcene,
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 praifes why fhould lords engrofs! Rite, honeft mufe; and fing the Man of Rofs: 250 Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarfe applaufe refounds.

Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?

From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in ufelefs columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently-loft,

But clear and artlefs, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain.
Whofe caufeway parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whofe feats the weary traveller repofe?
260
Who taught that heaven-directed fpire to rife!

The Man of Rofs," each lifping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! The Man of Rofs divides the weekly bread : He feeds yon alms- houfe, neat, but void of state, Where age and want fit fmiling at the gate; Him portion'd maids apprentic'd orphans bleft, The young who labour, and the old who reft. Is any fick? the Man of Rofs relieves, 269 Preferibes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives. Is there a variance? enter but his door, Blk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more. Despairing quacks with curfes fled the place, And vile attorneys, now an ufclefs race.

B. Thrice happy man! enabled to purfue What all fo with, but want the power to do! Oh fay, what iams that generous hand supply? What mines to well that bound. Is charity!

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man poffet-five hundred pounds a-year. Blush, grandeur, blufh! proud courts, withdraw your blaze!

Ye little ftars! hide your diminish'd rays.

281

B. And what no monument, infcripto, ftone? His race, his form, his name almoft unknown?

P Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name: Go, fearch it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the hiftory; Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between; Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been. When Hopkins dies, a thoufand lights attend The wretch, who living fav'd a candle's end;

VARIATIONS.

After ver. 250, in the MS.

Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's shore, Who fings not him, oh may he fing no more! Ver. 487 Thus in the MS.

290

The register inrolls him with his poor,
Tells he was born, and dy'd, and tells no more.
Juft as he ought, he fill'd the space between;

Shouldering God's altar a vile image ftands,
Belies his features, nay extends his hands;
That live-long wig, which Gorgon's felf might own,
Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.
Behold what bleffings wealth to life can lend!
And fee, what comfort it affords our end.
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,
The floors of plafter, and the walls of dung, 300
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 ftrove with dirty red,
Great Villers lies-alas! how chang'd from him,
That life of pleasure, and that foul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love;
Or just as gay, at council, in a ring

Of mimick'd ftatefmen, and their merry king. 310
No wit to flatter, left of all his ftore!

No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of ufelefs thousands ends.
His Grace's fate fage Cutler could forefee,
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."
Refolve me, reason, which of these are worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purfe? 320
Thy life more wretched, Cutler. was confefs'd,
Arife, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd?
Cutler faw tenants break, and houfes fall,
For very want; he could not build a wail.
His only daughter in a stranger's power,
For very want; he could not pay a dower.
A few grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd,
Iwas very want that fold them for two pound.
What! even deny'd a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend? 330
What but a want, which yo 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 fuch 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; 340
There dwelt a citizen of fober fame,
A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;

His word would pafs for more than he was worth.
One folid difh his week-day meal affords,
An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's: [fure,
Conftant at church, and Change, his gains were
His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.

The devil was piqu'd fuch faintfhip to behold, And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old: 350

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 337. In the former editions. That knotty point, my Lord, fhall I difcufs,

But Satan now is wifer than of yore,

And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Rouz'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep

The farge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich fhipwrecks blefs the lucky fhore. Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: "Live like yourself," was foon my lady's word; And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board. Afleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honeft factor ftole a gem away: He pledg'd it to the knight, the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some fcruple rofe, but thus he eas'd his thought, "I'll now give fixpence where I gave a groat; "Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice"And am fo clear too of all other vice."

361

The tempter faw his time: the work he ply'd; Stocks and fablcriptions pour on every fide, 370 Till all the dæmon makes his full defcent In one abundant fhower of cent per cent, Sinks deep within him, and poffeffes whole, Then dubs director, and fecures his foul.

381

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Afcribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a bleffing now is wit, And God's good providence a lucky hit. Things change their titles, as our manners turn: His counting-houfe employ'd the Sunday morn : Seldom at church, ('twas fuch a bufy life) But duly fent his family and wife. There (fo 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 fon a gay commiffion buys, Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies: 390 His daughter flaunts a vilcount's tawdry wife; She bears a coronet and p--x for life. In Britain's fenate he a feat obtains, And one more penfioner St. Stephen gains. My lady falls to play: fo bad her chance, He mull repair it; takes a bribe from France; The Houfe impeach him, Coning by harangues; The Curt forfake him, and Sir Balaam hangs : Wife, fon, and daughter, Satan! are thy own, His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown; 400 The devil and the king divide the prize, And fad Sir Balaam curfes God and dies.

EPISTLE IV.

TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF BURLINGTON,

Of the Ufe of Riches.

THE ARGUMENT.

Tax vanity of expence in people of wealth and quality. The abufe of the word taste, ver. 15.

That the first principle and foundation in this, as in every thing elfe, is good sense, ver. 40. The chief proof of it is to follow Nature, even in works of mere luxury and elegance. Inftanced in architecture and gardening, where all must be adapted to the genius and ufe of the place, and the beauties not forced into it, but refulting from it, ver. 50. How men are disappointed in their most expenfive undertakings, for want of this true foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all; and the best examples and rules will be perverted into fomething burdenfome and ridiculous, ver. 65, &c. to 92. A defeription of the falfe tafle of magnificence; the first grand error of which is, to imagine that greatness confifts in the fize and dimention, inftead of the proportion and harmony of the whole, ver. 97. and the fecond, either in joining together parts incoherent, or too minutely refembling, or in the repetition of the fame too frequently, ver. 105 &c. A word or two of falfe tafte in books, in mutic, in painting, even in preaching and prayer; and, laftly, in entertainments, ver. 133, &c. Yet Providence is juftified in giving wealth to be fquandered in this manner, fince it is difperfed to the poor and laborious part of mankind, ver. 169, &c. [recurring to what is laid down in the firft Book, Ep. ii. and in the Epifle preceding this, ver. 159, &c.] What are the proper objects of magnificence," and a proper field for the expence of great men, ver. 177, &c. and finally the great and public works which become a prince, ver. 191, to the end.

The extremes of avarice and profufion being treat-. ed of in the foregoing epiftle; this takes up one particular branch of the latter, the vanity of expence in people of wealth and quality; and is therefore a corollary to the preceding, juft as the Epifle on the Characters of Women is to that of the Knowledge and Characters of Men. It is equally remarkable for exactnefs of method with the reft. But the nature of the fubject, which is lefs philofophical, makes it capable of being analyzed in a much narrower compafs.

'Tis ftrange, the mifer fhould his cares employ
To gain thofe riches he can ne'er enjoy:
Is it lefs ftrange, the prodigal fhould wafte
His wealth, to purchafe what he ne'er can tafte?
Not for himself he fees, or hears, or eats;
Artists must choof his pictures, mufic, meats;
He buys for Topham drawings and designs;
For Pembroke ftatues, dirty gods, and coins;
Rare monkish manufcripts for Hearne alone,
And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane.
Think we all thefe are for himfelt? no more
Than his fine wife, alas! or finer whore.

II

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted: Only to fhow, how many tastes he wanted. What brought Sir Vifto's ill-got wealth to waste? Some dæmon whifper'd," Vilto! have a tafte." Heaven vifits with a tafte the wealthy fool, And needs no rod but Ripley with a rule.

See! fportive fate, to punish aukward pride,
Bids Bub build, and fends him fuch a guide: 20
A ftanding fermon, at each year's expence,
That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence!

You fhow us Ron e was glorious, not profufe, And pompous buildings once were things of ufe. Yet fhall (my lord) your juft, your noble rules Fill half the land with imitating fools;

Who random drawings from your fheets fhall take,

30

And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load fome vain church with old Theatric state,
Turn arts of triumph to a garden gate;
Reverie your ornaments, and hang them all
On fome patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall;
Then clap four flices of pilafter on't,
That, lac'd with bits of ruftic, makes a front.
Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;
Concious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they starve, they farve 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 fomething previous ev'n to tafte-'tis fense:
Good fenfe, which only is the gif. of Heaven,
And though no fcience, fairly worth the feven :
A light, which i yourfelf you muit 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 fwell the terrace, or to fink the grot;
In all, let nature never be forgot.
But treat the goddefs like a modeft fair,
Nor over drefs, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, wh pleasingly confounds,
Surprifes, varies, and conceals the bounds.

40

50

60

Confult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters or to rife or fall; Or helps th' ambitious hill the heavens to scale, Or fcoops in circling theatres the vale; Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies fhades from fhades; Now breaks, or now directs th' intending lines; Paints as you plant and, as you wok, defigns.

Still follow fenfe, of every art the foul, Parts anfwering part shall flide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance,

- Start ev'n from difficulty, frike from chance; Nature fhall join you; time fhall make it grow A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow.

70

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

VARIATIONS.

After ver 22, in the MS.

Muft bishops, lawyers, frateimen have the skill
To build, to plant, judge paintings, what you will?
Then why not Kent as well our treaties draw,

Or cut wide views through mountains to the plais,
You'll with your hill or fhelter'd feat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
Nor in an hermitage fet Dr Clarke.
Behold Villario's ten years toil complete;
His quincunx darkens, his efpaliers meet;
The wood fupports the plain, the parts unite,
And strength of fhade contends with strength of
light;

A waving glow the bloomy beds display,
Blufhing in bright diversities of day,

With filver-quivering rills mæander'd o'er—
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more;

Tir'd of the fcene parterres and fountains yield,
He finds at last he better likes a field.

8.

Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus ftray'd,

Or fate delighted in the thickening fhade,
With annual joy the reddening fhoots to greet,
Or fee the stretching branches long to meet!
His fon's fine tafte an opener vista loves,
Foe to the Dyrads of his father's groves;
One boundiefs green, or flourish'd carpet views,
With all the mournful family of yews:
The thriving plants ignoble broomflicks made,
Now fweep thofe alleys they were born to fhade.
At Timon's villa let us pafs a day,

Where all cry out, "What fums are thrown away.'

So proud, fo grand; of that ftupendous air,
Soft and agreeable come never there.
Greatnefs, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compaís this, his building is a town,

His pond an ocean, his parterre a down:
Who but muft laugh, the mafter when he fees,

A puny infect, fhivering at a breeze!

Lo, what huge heaps of littlenefs around!

The whole, a labour'd quarry ab ve ground, 110
Two Cupids fquirt before: a lake behind
Improves the keennefs of the northern wind.
His gardens next your admiration call.
On every fide you look behold the wall!
No pleafing intricacies intervene,

No artful wildnefs to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, cach alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The fuffering eye inverted nature fees,
Trees cut to ftatues, ftatues thick as trees; 120
With here a fountain, never to be play'd;
And there a fummer-house that knows no fhade;
Here Amphitrite fails through my:tle bowers;
There gladiators fight, or die in flowers;
Unwater'd fee the drooping fea-horfe mourn,
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dufty urn.

But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner cali; A hundred footsteps fcrape the marble hall: The rich buffet well-coloured ferpents grace, And gaping Tritons fpew to wash your face. Is this a dinner? this a genial room! No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb. A folemn facrifice perform'd in state, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there. 160 Between each act the trembling falvers ring,

From foup to fweet-wine, and God bless the
King.

In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,
And complaifantly help'd to all I hate,

Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curfe fuch lavish cost, and little skill,
And fwear no day was ever past fo ill.

170

Yet hence the poor are cloth d, the hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread, The labourer bears: What his hard heart denies, His charitable vanity fupplies.

Another age fhall fee the golden ear

Imbrown the flope, and nod on the parterre,
Deep harvest bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-affume the land.

Who then shall grace, or who improve the foil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle. 'Tis ufe alone but fanctifies expence,

And fplendor borrows all her rays from fenfe. 180
His father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase :
Whole cheerful tenants blefs their yearly toil,
Yet to their lord owe more than to the foil;
Whole ample lawns are not afham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deferving steed;
Whole rifing forefts, not for pride or show,
But future buildings, future navies, grow:
Let his plantati ns stretch from down to down,
First fhade a country, and then raise a town. 190
You too proceed make falling arts your care,
Erce new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before :
Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind.
(Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd)
Bid harbours open, public ways extend,
Bid temples worthier of the god afcend;
Bid the broad archthe dangerous flood contain,
The mole projected break the roaring main; 200

Backto his bounds their fubject fea command, And oll obedient rivers through the land; These honours, peace to happy Britain brings; These are imperial works, and worthy kings.

EPISTLE V.

TO MR. ADDISON,

Occafioned by bis Dialogues on Medals.

THIS was originally written in the year 1715, when Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of Medals; it was fome time before hewas Secretary of State; but not published till Mr. Pickell's edition of his works; at which time the verfes on Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were added, viz. in 1720.

As the third Epistle treated of the extremes of avarice and profufion; and the fourth took up one particular branch of the latter, namely, the vanity of expence in people of wealth and quality, and was therefore a corollary to the third; fo this treats of one circumftance of that vanity, as it appears in the common collectors of old coins; and is, therefore, a corollary to the fourth.

SEE the wild waste of all-devouring years!
How Rome her own fad fepulchre appears,
With nodding arches, broken temples spread!
The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead;
Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd, [toil'd:
Where mix'd with flaves the groaning martyr
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods,
Now drain'd a diftant country of her floods:
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride furvey;
Statues of men, fcarce lefs alive than they!
Some felt the filent ftroke of mouldering age,
Some hoftile fury, fome religious rage.
Barbarian blindness, Chriftian zeal confpire,
And Papal piety, and Gothic fire.

ΙΟ

Perhaps, by its own ruins fav'd from flame,
Some bury'd marble half preferves a name;
That name the learn'd with fierce disputes pursue,
And give to Titus old Vefpafian's due

Ambition figh'd: the found in vain to trust The faithlefs column and the crumbling buft: 20 Huge moles, whofe fhadow stretch'd from shore to fhore,

Their ruins perifh'd, and their place no more!
Convinc'd the now contracts her vast design,
And all her triumphs fhrink into a coin.
A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps,
Beneath her palm here fad Judea weeps.
Now fcantier limits the proud arch confine,
And scarce are seen the proftrate Nile or Rhine;
A fmall Euphrates through the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

39

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Through climesand ages bears each form and name; In one fhort view fubjected to our eye Gods, emperors heroes, fages, beauties, lie. With fharpen'd fight pale antiquaries pore, Th' infcription value, but the ruft adore.

See! fportive fate, to punish aukward pride,
Bids Bub build, and fends him fuch a guide: 20
A ftanding fermon, at each year's expence,
That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence!

You how us Ron e was glorious, not profufe, And pompous buildings once were things of ufe. Yet fhall (my lord) your juft, your noble rules Fill half the land with imitating fools;

Who random drawings from your fheets fhall take,

30

And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load fome vain church with old Theatric ftate,
Turn arts of triumph to a garden gate;
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all
On fome patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall;
Then clap four flices of pilafter on't,
That, lac'd with bits of ruftic, makes a front.
Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;
Contcious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they ftarve, they farve by rules of art.

40

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer,
A certain truth, which many buy too dear:
Something there is more needful than expence,
And fomething previous ev'n to tafte-'tis fenfe:
Good fenfe, which only is the gif of Heaven,
And though no fcience, fairly worth the feven:
A light, which is yourfelf 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 fwell the terrace, or to fink the grot;
In all, let nature never be forgot.
But treat the goddess like a modeft fair,
Nor over drefs, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,
Surprifes, varies, and conceals the bounds.

50

60

Confult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters or to rife or fall; Or helps th' ambitious hill the heavens to scale, Or fcoops in circling theatres the vale; Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies fhades from fhades; Now breaks, or now directs th' intending lines; Paints as you plant and, as you wok, defigns. Still follow fenfe, of every art the foul, Parts anfwering part fhall flide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance,

· Start ev'n from difficulty, frike from chance; Nature fhall join you; time shall make it grow A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stow.

70

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

VARIATIONS.

After ver 22, in the MS.

Muft bishops, lawyers, frateimen have the skill
To build, to plant, judge paintings, what you will?
Then why not Kent as well our treaties draw,

A waving glow the bloomy beds display,
Blufhing in bright diversities of day,

With filver-quivering rills maander'd o'er-
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more;
Tir'd of the fcene parterres and fountains yield,
He finds at last he better likes a field.

Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus ftray'd,

Or fate delighted in the thickening fhade,
With annual joy the reddening fhoots to greet,
Or fee the stretching branches long to meet!
His fon's fine tafte an opener vista loves,
Foe to the Dyrads of his father's groves;
One boundiefs green, or flourish'd carpet views,
With all the mournful family of yews:
The thriving plants ignoble broomflicks made,
Now sweep thofe alleys they were born to fhade.
At Timon's villa let us pafs a day,

Where all cry out, "What fums are thrown away.'

So proud, fo grand; of that ftupendous air,
Soft and agreeable come never there.
Greatnefs, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compaís this, his building is a town,

His pond an ocean, his parterre a down:
Who but must laugh, the mafter when he fees,

A puny infect, fhivering at a breeze!

Lo, what huge heaps of littlenefs around!

The whole, a labour'd quarry ab ve ground, 110
Two Cupids fquirt before: a lake behind
Improves the keennefs of the northern wind.
His gardens next your admiration call.
On every fide you
look behold the wall!
No pleafing intricacies intervene,
No artful wildnefs to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, cach alley has a brother,
And half the platform juft reflects the other.
The fuffering eye inverted nature fees,
Trees cut to ftatues, ftatues thick as trees;
With here a fountain, never to be play'd;
And there a fummer houfe that knows no fhade;
Here Amphitrite fails through my:tle bowers;
There gladiators fight, or die in flowers;
Unwater'd fee the drooping fea-horfe mourn,
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dufty urn.

120

129

My lord advances with majeflic mien, Smit with the mighty pleafure to be feen: But foft-by regular approach-not yetFir@ through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; And when up tep fteep flopes you've dragg'd your Juft at his ftudy-door he'll bleis your eyes [thighs, His ftudy! with what authors is it flor'd? In books, not authors, curious is my lord; To all their dated backs ke turns you round;