Can they direct what measure to pursue,
Who know themselves so little what to do?
Alike in nothing but one lust of gold,
Just half the land would buy, and half be sold:
Their country's wealth our mightier misers drain,
Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main;
The rest, some farm the poor-box, some the pews;
Some keep assemblies, and would keep the stews;
Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn;
Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn;
While with the silent growth of ten per cent,
In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content.
Of all these ways, if each pursues his own,
Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone:
But show me one who has it in his power
To act consistent with himself an hour.
Sir Job sail'd forth, the evening bright and still,
"No place on earth (he cry'd) like Greenwich hill!"
Up starts a palace, lo! th' obedient base
Slopes at its foot, the woods its sides embrace,
The silver Thames reflects its marble face.
Now let some whimsey, or that devil within [mean,
Which guides all those who know not what they
But give the knight (or give his lady) spleen;
Away, away! take all your scaffolds down,
For snug's the word: my dear! we'll live in town."
At amorous Flavio is the stocking thrown?
That very night he longs to lie alone.

The fool, whose wife elopes some thrice a quarter,
For matimonial solace dies a martyr.
Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch,
Transform themselves so strangely as the rich?
Well, but the poor-The poor have the same itch;
They change their weekly barber, weekly news,
Prefer a new japanner to their shoes;

Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run
(They know not whither) in a chaise and one;
They hire their sculler, and when once aboard,
Grow sick, and damn the climate-like a lord.
You laugh, half-beau, half-sloven if I stand,
My wig all powder, and all snuif my band;
You laugh, if coat and breeches strangely vary,
White gloves, and linen worthy Lady Mary!
But when no prelate's lawn, with hair-shirt lin❜d,
Is half so incoherent as my mind,
When (each opinion with the next at strife,
One ebb and flow of follies all my life)
I plant, root up; I build, and then confound;
Turn round to square, and square again to round;
You never change one muscle of your face,
You think this madness but a common case,
Nor once to Chancery, nor to Hale apply;
Yet hang your lip to see a seam awry!
Careless how ill I with myself agree,
Kind to my dress, my figure, not to me.
Is this my guide, philosopher, and friend?
This he, who loves me, and who ought to mend?
Who ought to make me (what he can, or none)
That man divine, whom wisdom calls her own;
Great without title, without fortune bless'd;
Rich ev'n when plunder'd, honour'd while op-
press'd;

Lov'd without youth, and follow'd without power;
At home, though exil'd; free though in the tower;
In short, that reasoning, high, immortal thing,
Just less than Jove, and much above a king;
Nay, half in heaven-except (what's mighty odd)
A fit of vapours clouds this demi-god!

BOOK I. EPISTLE VI.

TO MR. MURRAY.

"Not to admire, is all the art I know, To make men happy, and to keep them so." (Plain truth, dear Murray, needs no flowers of speech, So take it in the very words of Creech.)

This vault of air, this congregated ball, Self-centred sun, and stars that rise and fall, There are, my friend! whose philosophic eyes Look through and trust the Ruler with his skies, To him commit the hour, the day, the year, And view this dreadful all without a fear.

Admire we then what earth's low entrails hold, Arabian shores, or Indian seas infold; All the mad trade of fools and slaves for gold? Or popularity? or stars and strings? The mob's applauses, or the gifts of kings? Say, with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze, And pay the great our homage of amaze?

If weak the pleasure that from these can spring, The fear to want them is as weak a thing; Whether we dread, or whether we desire, In either case, believe me, we admire ; Whether we joy or grieve, the same the curse, Surpris'd at better, or surpris'd at worse. Thus good or bad, to one extreme betray Th' unbalanc'd mind, and snatch the man away; For virtue's self may too much zeal be had; The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.

Go then, and if you can, admire the state Of beaming diamonds, and reflected plate; Procure a taste to double the surprise, And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes, Be struck with bright brocade, or Tyrian dye, Our birth-day nobles' splendid livery. If not so pleas'd, at council board rejoice, To see their judgments hang upon thy voice; From morn to night, at senate, rolls, and hall, Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all. But wherefore all this labour, all this strife? For fame, for riches, for a noble wife? Shall one whom nature, learning, birth conspir'd To form, not to admire, but be admir'd, Sigh, while his Chloe, blind to wit and worth, Weds the rich dulness of some son of earth? Yet time ennobles, or degrades each line; It brighten'd Craggs's, and may darken thine: And what is fame? the meanest have their day, The greatest can but blaze, and pass away. Grac'd as thou art, with all the power of words, So known, so honour'd at the House of Lords; Conspicuous scene! another yet is nigh, (More silent far) where kings and poets lie; Where Murray (long enough his country's pride)

Shall be no more than Tully, or than Hyde!
Rack'd with sciatics, martyr'd with the stone,
Will any mortal let himself alone?

See Ward by batter'd beaux invited over,
And desperate misery lays hold on Dover,
The case is easier in the mind's disease;

There all men may be cur'd, whene'er they please.
Would ye be blest? despise low joys, low gains;
Disdain whatever Cornbury disdains;

Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains.

But art thou one whom new opinions sway,
One who believes as Tindal leads the way,
Who virtue and a church alike disowns,

Thinks that but words, and this but brick and stones?
Fly then, on all the wings of wild desire,
Admire whate'er the maddest can admire:
Is wealth thy passion? Hence! from pole to pole,
Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll,
For Indian spices, for Peruvian gold,
Prevent the greedy, or outbid the bold :
Advance thy golden mountain to the skies;
On the broad base of fifty thousand rise,
Add one round hundred, and (if that's not fair)
Add fifty more, and bring it to a square.
For, mark th' advantage; just so many score,
Will gain a wife with half as many more,
Procure her beauty, make that beauty chaste,.
And then such friends-as cannot fail to last.
A man of wealth is dubb'd a man of worth,
Venus shall give him form, and Anstis birth.
(Believe me, many a German prince is worse,
Who proud of pedigree, is poor of purse).
His wealth brave Timou gloriously confounds;
Ask'd for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds;
Or if three ladies like a luckless play,
Takes the whole house upon the poet's day.
Now, in such exigencies not to need,
Upon my word, you must be rich indeed;
A noble superfluity it craves,

Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves;
Something, which for your honour they may cheat,
And which it much becomes you to forget.
If wealth alone then make and keep us blest,
Still, still be getting, never, never rest,

But if to power and place your passion lie,
If in the pomp of life consist the joy;
Then hire a slave, or (if you will) a lord,
To do the honours, and to give the word;
Tell at your levee, as the crowds approach,
To whom to nod, whom take into your coach,
Whom honour with your hand: to make remarks,
Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks:
"This may be troublesome, is near the chair:
That makes three members, this can choose a mayor."
Instructed thus, you bow, embrace, protest,
Adopt him, son, or cousin at the least,
Then turn about, and laugh at your own jest.
Or if your life be one continued treat,
If to live well means nothing but to eat ;
Up, up! cries Gluttony, 'tis break of day,
Go drive the deer, and drag the finny prey;
With hounds and horns go hunt an appetite-

So Russel did, but could not eat at night; Call'd happy dog! the beggar at his door, And envy'd thirst and hunger to the poor.

Or shall we every decency confound;
Through taverns, stews, and bagnios take our round;
Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo,
K-l's lewd cargo, or Ty-y's crew;

From Latian syrens, French Circæan feasts,
Return well travell'd, and transform'd to beasts;
Or for a titled punk, or foreign flame,
Renounce our country, and degrade our name?
If, after all, we must with Wilmot own,
The cordial drop of life is love alone,
And Swift cry wisely, "Vive la bagatelle!"
The man that loves and laughs, must sure do well.
Adieu-if this advice appear the worst,

E'en take the counsel which I gave you first:
Or better precepts if you can impart,
Why do, I'll follow them with all my heart.

EPISTLE I.

TO AUGUSTUS.

While you, great patron of mankind! sustain
The balanc'd world, and open all the main ;
Your country, chief, in arms abroad defend;
At home, with morals, arts, and laws amend;
How shall the Muse, from such a monarch steal
An hour, and not defraud the public weal?

Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame,
And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name,
After a life of generous toils endur'd,
The Gaul subdued, or property secur'd,
Ambition humbled, mighty cities storm'd,
Or laws establish'd, and the world reform'd;
Clos'd their long glories with a sigh, to find
Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
All human virtue to its latest breath,
Finds envy never conquer'd but by death.
The great Alcides, every labour past,
Had still this monster to subdue at last.
Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray
Each star of meaner merit fades away!
Oppress'd we feel the beam directly beat,
Those suns of glory please not till they set.

To thee, the world its present homage pays,
The harvest early, but mature the praise:
Great friend of liberty! in kings a name
Above all Greek, above all Roman fame:
Whose word is truth, as sacred and rever'd,
As Heaven's own oracles from altars heard.
Wonder of kings! like whom, to mortal eyes
None e'er has risen, and none e'er shall rise.

Just in one instance, be it yet confest Your people, sir, are partial in the rest: Foes to all living worth except your own, And advocates for folly dead and gone. Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old; It is the rust we value, not the gold. Chaucer's worst ribaldry is learn'd by rote, And beastly Skelton heads of houses quote: One likes no language but the Faery Queene;

A vile encomium doubly ridicules:
There's nothing blackens like the ink of fools.
If true, a woful likeness; and if lies,
"Praise undeserv'd is scandal in disguise :"
Well may he blush, who gives it, or receives;
And when I flatter, let my dirty leaves
(Like journals, odes, and such forgotten things
As Eusden, Philips, Settle, writ of kings)
Clothe spice, line trunks, or fluttering in a row,
Befringe the rails of Bedlam and Soho.

BOOK II. EPISTLE II.

Ludentis speciem dabit, et torquebitur. HoR. Dear Col'nel, Cobham's and your country's friend! You love a verse, take such as I can send. A Frenchman comes, presents you with his boy, Bows, and begins" This lad, sir, is of Blois; Observe his shape how clean! his locks how curl'd! My only son; I'd have him see the world: His French is pure; his voice too-you shall hear. Sir, he's your slave, for twenty pound a-year. Mere wax as yet, you fashion him with ease, Your barber, cook, upholsterer, what you please: A perfect genius at an opera song

To say too much might do my honour wrong. 2 Take him with all his virtues, on my word; His whole ambition was to serve a lord: But, sir, to you, with what would I not part? Though faith, I fear 'twill break his mother's heart. Once (and but once) I caught him in a lie, And then, unwhipp'd, he had the grace to cry: The fault he has I fairly shall reveal, (Could you o'erlook but that) it is, to steal."

8

If, after this, you took the graceless lad, Could you complain, my friend, he prov'd so bad? 'Faith, in such case, if you should prosecute, I think Sir Godfrey should decide the suit: Who sent the thief that stole the cash, away, And punish'd him that put it in his way. Consider then, and judge me in this light; I told you when I went, I could not write; You said the same; and are you discontent With laws, to which you gave your own assent? Nay worse, to ask for verse at such a time! D'ye think me good for nothing but to rhyme ? In Anna's wars, a soldier poor and old Had dearly earn'd a little purse of gold: Tir'd with a tedious march, one luckless night, He slept, poor dog! and lost it, to a doit. This put the man in such a desperate mind, Between revenge, and grief, and hunger join'd, Against the foe, himself, and all mankind, He leap'd the trenches, scal'd a castle-wall, Tore down a standard, took the fort and all. "Prodigious well !” his great commander cry'd, Gave him much praise, and some reward beside. Next pleas'd his excellence a town to batter, (Its name I know not, and 'tis no great matter); "Go on, my friend, (he cry'd) see yonder walls! Advance and conquer! go where glory calls! More honours, more rewards, attend the brave." Don't you remember what reply he gave?

"D'ye think me, noble general, such a sot? Let him take castles who has ne'er a groat."

Bred up at home, full early I begun To read in Greek the wrath of Peleus' son. Besides, my father taught me from a lad, The better art to know the good from bad: (And little sure imported to remove, To hunt for truth in Maudlin's learned grove.) But knottier points we knew not half so well Depriv'd us soon of our paternal cell; And certain laws, by sufferers thought unjust, Deny'd all posts of profit or of trust: Hopes after hopes of pious Papists fail'd,

While mighty William's thundering arms prevail'd.
For right hereditary tax'd and fin'd,

He stuck to poverty with peace of mind;
And me,
the Muses help'd to undergo it;
Convict a Papist he, and I a poet.

But (thanks to Homer) hence I live and thrive,
Indebted to no prince or peer alive.

Sure I should want the care of ten Monroes,
If I would scribble, rather than repose.

Years following years, steal something every day,
At last they steal us from ourselves away;
In one our frolics, one amusements end,
In one a mistress drops, in one a friend :
This subtle thief of life, this paltry time,
What will it leave me, if it snatch my rhyme ?
If every wheel of that unweary'd mill,
That turn'd ten thousand verses, now stands still?
But after all, what would you have me do?
When out of twenty I can please not two;
When this heroics only deigns to praise,
Sharp satire that, and that pindaric lays?
One likes the pheasant's wing, and one the leg;
The vulgar boil, the learned roast an egg.
Hard task! to hit the palate of such guests,
When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detests.

But grant I may relapse, for want of grace, Again to rhyme: can London be the place? Who there his Muse, or self, or soul attends, In crowds, and courts, law, business, feasts, and My counsel sends to execute a deed : [friends? A poet begs me I will hear him read: In Palace-yard at nine you'll find me thereAt ten, for certain, sir, in Bloomsbury-squareBefore the Lords at twelve my cause comes onThere's a rehearsal, sir, exact at one."Oh but a wit can study in the streets, And raise his mind above the mob he meets." Not quite so well however as one ought; A hackney-coach may chance to spoil a thought; And then a nodding beam, or pig of lead, God knows, may hurt the very ablest head. Have you not seen, at Guildhall's narrow pass, Two aldermen dispute it with an ass? And peers give way, exalted as they are, Ev'n to their own s-r-v-nce in a car?

Go, lofty poet! and in such a crowd, Sing thy sonorous verse-but not aloud. Alas! to grottos and to groves we run, To ease and silence, every Muse's son:

Nn

Blackmore himself, for any grand effort,
Would drink and doze at Tooting or Earl's-court.
How shall I rhyme in this eternal roar? [fore?
How match the bard whom none e'er match'd be-
The man, who, stretch'd in Isis' calm retreat,
To books and study gives seven years complete,
See! strow'd with learned dust, his nightcap on,
He walks, an object new beneath the sun!
The boys flock round him, and the people stare :
So stiff, so mute! some statue, you would swear,
Stepp'd from its pedestal to take the air!

And here, while town, and court, and city roars,
With mobs, and duns, and soldiers, at their doors,
Shall I, in London, act this idle part,
Composing songs, for fools to get by heart?

The Temple late two brother sergeants saw,
Who deem'd each other oracles of law;
With equal talents, these congenial souls,
One lull'd th' exchequer, and one stunn'd the rolls;
Each had a gravity would make you split,
And shook his head at Murray, as a wit.
"Twas," Sir, your law"-and" Sir, your eloquence,"
"Your's Cowper's manner"-and your's "Talbot's
Thus we dispose of all poetic merit, [sense."
Your's Milton's genius, and mine Homer's spirit.
Call Tibbald Shakspeare, and he'll swear the Nine,
Dear Cibber! never match'd one ode of thine.
Lord! how we strut through Merlin's cave, to see
No poets there but, Stephen, you and me.
Walk with respect behind, while we at ease
Weave laurel crowns, and take what names we
"My dear Tibullus! if that will not do,
Let me be Horace, and be Ovid you!
Or, I'm content, allow me Dryden's strains,
And you shall rise up Otway for your pains."
Much do I suffer, much, to keep in peace
This jealous, waspish, wrong-head, rhyming race;
And much must flatter, if the whim should bite
To court applause by printing what I write :
But let the fit pass o'er, I'm wise enough
To stop my ears to their confounded stuff.

[please.

In vain bad rhymers all mankind reject,
They treat themselves with most profound respect;
'Tis to small purpose that you hold your tongue,
Each prais'd within, is happy all day long :
But how severely with themselves proceed
The men, who write such verse as we can read?
Their own strict judges, not a word they spare,
That wants or force, or light, or weight, or care,
Howe'er unwillingly it quits its place,
Nay though at court (perhaps) it may find grace:
Such they'll degrade; and sometimes, in its stead,
In downright charity revive the dead;

Mark where a bold, expressive phrase appears,
Bright through the rubbish of some hundred years;
Command old words that long have slept, to wake,
Words, that wise Bacon, or brave Raleigh spake;
Or bid the new be English, ages hence,
(For use will father what's begot by sense);
Pour the full tide of eloquence along,
Serenely pure, and yet divinely strong,

Rich with the treasures of each foreign tongue!

Prune the luxuriant, the uncouth refine,
But show no mercy to an empty line:
Then polish all with so much life and ease,
You think 'tis nature, and a knack to please:
“But ease in writing flows from art, not chance;
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance."
If such the plague and pains to write by rule,
Better (say I) be pleas'd, and play the fool;
Call, if you will, bad rhyming a disease,
It gives men happiness, or leaves them ease.
There liv'd in primo Georgii (they record)
A worthy member, no small fool, a lord;
Who, though the house was up, delighted sate,
Heard, noted, answer'd, as in full debate:
In all but this, a man of sober life,
Fond of his friend, and civil to his wife;
Not quite a madman, though a pasty fell;
And much too wise to walk into a well.
Him, the damn'd doctors and his friends immur'd,
They bled, they cupp'd, they purg'd; in short they
Whereat the gentleman began to stare [cur'd:
My friends! he cry'd, p―x take you for your care!
That from a patriot of distinguish'd note,
Have bled and purg'd me to a simple vote.

Well, on the whole, plain prose must be my fate:
Wisdom (curse on it) will come soon or late.
There is a time when poets will grow dull:
I'll e'en leave verses to the boys at school:
To rules of poetry no more confin'd,
I'll learn to smooth and harmonize my mind,
Teach every thought within its bounds to roll,
And keep the equal measure of the soul.

Soon as I enter at my country door,
My mind resumes the thread it dropp'd before;
Thoughts which at Hyde-park corner I forgot,
Meet and rejoin me, in the pensive grot.
There all alone, and compliments apart,

I ask these sober questions of my heart.

If, when the more you drink, the more you crave, You tell the doctor; when the more you have, The more you want, why not with equal ease Confess as well your folly, as disease? The heart resolves this matter in a trice, "Men only feel the smart, but not the vice."

When golden angels cease to cure the evil, You give all royal witchcraft to the devil: When servile chaplains cry, that birth and place Indue a peer with honour, truth, and grace; Look in that breast, most dirty Dean! be fair, Say, can you find out one such lodger there? Yet still, not heeding what your heart can teach, You go to church to hear these flatterers preach. Indeed, could wealth bestow or wit or merit, A grain of courage, or a spark of spirit, The wisest man might blush, I must agree, If D*** lov'd sixpence, more than he.

If there be truth in law, and use can give A property, that's your's on which you live, Delightful Abs-court, 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 your own: