« ZurückWeiter »
He bought at thousands, what with better wit
You purchase as you want, and bit by bit: 1, Ņow, or long since, what difference will be found,
You pay a penny, and he paid a pound.
Heathcote himself, and such largé-acred men, -e;
Lords of fat E’sham, or of Lincoln fen,
ot, 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 :
ise i 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,
By sale, at least by death, to change their lord.
Man ? and forever? wretch! what wouldst thou have, -il,
Heir urges heir, like wave impelling wave.
All vast possessions (just the same the case
Whether you call them villa, park, or chase), i
Alas, my Bathurst! what will they avail?
Join Cotswood's hills to Saperton's fair dale,
Let rising granaries and temples here,
Their mingled farms and pyramids appear,
Link towns to towns with avenues of oak,
Enclose whole downs in walls, 'tis all a joke!
Inexorable death shall level all,
And trees, and stones, and farm, and farmer fall.
Gold, silver, ivory, vases sculptured high,
Paint, marble, gems, and robes of Persian dye,
There are wh have not-and, thank Heaven! there
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.
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 scoru content,
Bows and votes on in court and parliament;
One, driven by strong benevolence of soul,
Shall fly like Oglethorpe, froin pole to pole
Is known alone to that Directing Power,
Who forms the genius in the natal hour;
That God of nature, who within us still,
Inclines our action, not constrains our will;
Various of temper, as of face or frame,
Each individual: His great end the same.
Yes, sir, how small soever be my heap,
A part I will enjoy, as well as keep.
My heir may sigh, and think it want of grace
A man so poor would live without a place:
But sure no statute in his favour says,
How free or frugal I shall pass my days:
I who at sometiines spend, at other's spare,
Divided between carelessness and care.
'Tis one thing madly to disperse my store;
Another, not to heed to treasure more;
Glad, like a boy, to snatch the first good day,
And pleased, if sordid want be far away.
What is't to me, (a passenger God wot
Whether my vessel be first rate or not?
The ship itself may make a better figure;
But I that sail am neither less nor bigger;
I neither strut with every favouring breath,
Nor strive with all the tempest in my teeth,
In power, wit, figure, virtue, fortune, placed
Behind the foremost, and before the last.
• But why all this of avarice? I bave none.'
I wish you joy, sir, of a tyrant gone !
But does no other lord it at this hour,
As wild and mad? the avarice of power ?
Does neither rage inflame, nor fear appal?
No: the black fear of death that saddens all ?
With terrors round, can reason hold her throne
Despise the known, nor tremble at the unknown?
Survey both worlds, intrepid and entire,
In spite of witches, devils, dreams and fire?
Pleased to look forward, pleased to look behind,
And count each birth-day with a grateful mind
Has life no sourness, drawn so near its end?
Canst thou endure a foe, forgive a friend ?
Has age but melted the rough parts away,
As winter-fruits grow mild ere they decay ?
Or will you think, my friend, sour business done,
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one?
Learn to live well, or fairly make your
You've play'd, and lov'd, and ate, and drank your fill:
Walk sober off, before a sprightlier age
Comes tittering on, and shoves you from the stage :
Leave such to trifle with more grace
ease, Whom foily pleases, and whose follies please.
Sir; though (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this town; yet there's one state
Yet here, as e'en in hell, there must be still
One giant-vice, so excellently ill,
That all beside one pities, not abhors:
As who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores.
I grant that poetry's a crying sin;
It brought (no doubt) the excise and
in : Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how, But that the cure is starving, all allow. Yet like the papist's, is the poet's state, Poor and disarm’d, and hardly worth your hate?
Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give Himself a dinner, makes an actor live: The thief condemu’d, in law already dead, So prompts, and saves a rogue who cannot read. Thus as the pipes of some carved organ move, The gilded puppets dance and mount above. Heaved by the breath the inspiring bellows blow: The inspiring hellows lie and pant below.
One sings the fair: but songs no longer move; No rat is rhymed to death, nor maid to love; In love's, in natures spite, the siege they hold, And score the flesh, the devil, and all but gold.
These write to lords, some mean reward to get, As needy heggars sing at doors for meat. Those write because all write, and so bave still Excuse for writing, and for writing ill. Wretched indeed: but far more wretched yet Is he who makes liis meal on other's wit: 'Tis changed, no doubt, from what it was before ; His rank digestion makes it wit no more: Sense, pass'd throngh bim, no longer is the same; For food digested takes another name.
I pass o'er all those confessors and martyrs,
Who live like S-tt--n, or who die like Chartres.
Out-cant old E»dras, or out-drink his heir,
Out-usure Jews. or Irishmien out-swear;
Wicked as pages, who in early years
Acts sins which Prisca's confessor scarce hears :
E’en those I pardon, for whose sinful sake
Schoolmen new tenements in hell must make;
Of whose strange crimes no canonist can tell
In what cominandment's large contents they dwell.
One, one man only breeds my just offence ;