Abfurd the wifh of all men, if expreft;
Each grieves that he's not lord of all the reft.
Why then should we complain, or thankless live,
Because not bleft with more than God can give?
Would you be safe from others? 'tis but due,
That others alfo fhould be fafe from you.
It is not virtue wakes the clam'rous throng;
Each claims th' exclufive privilege, to wrong.
When ceafelefs faction muft embroil the mad;
Alike impatient, under A' or Zad.

How patriot Cromwell fights for liberty!
He shifts the yoke, then calls the nation free.
He cannot bear a monarch on the throne;
But vindicates his right-to rule alone.

Macheath roars out for freedom in his cell;
And Tindal wifely would extinguish hell.
Macheath's approv'd by all whom Tyburn awes,
And trembling guilt gives Tindal's page applause.
O fage device, to fet the confcience free

From dread! he winks; then fays that heav'n can't fee.

Both blindly plan the paradife of fools;

Peace without laws, and virtue without rules.
Full of the Roman let the fchool-boy quote,
And rant all Lucian's rhapsodies by rote.
Gods! fhall he tremble at a mortal's nod !
His generous foul difdains the tyrant's rod.
Forc'd to fubmit, at last he tastes the fruit;
Finds wealth and honours bloffom from its root.

Would thy young foul be like the Roman free?
From Romans paint thy form of LIBERTY:

с

The goddess offers gifts from either hand;

Th' aufpicious bonnet, with the PRÆTOR's wand;

The privilege of that would't thou not miss,
Bend, and fubmit beneath the stroke of this,
See Furiofo on his keeper frown,

Depriv'd the precious privilege to drown;
Greatly he claims a right to his undoing;
The chains that hold him, hold him from his ruin,
Kindly proceed; strict discipline difpense;
Till water-gruel low'rs him down to fenfe.

"Why this to me? am I the froward boy,
"Or knave to wrong, or madman to destroy "
Will thy denial prove that thou art none !
"Tis Newgate's logick: thou art all in one.
Blind to their good, to be instructed loth,
a Men are but children of a larger growth;
`If no fuperior force the will controul,
Self-love's a villain, and corrupts the foul
Wild and deftructive projects fire our brains;
We all are madmen, and demand our chains.
Know your own sphere, content to be a man;
Well pleas'd, to be as happy as you can:
Lose not all good, by fhunning ills in vain ;
'Tis wifer to enjoy than to complain.

• In this manner they reprefent LIBERTY on their medals. Dryden in All for Love.

Some

Some evils must attend imperfect states;

But discontent new worlds of ills creates.

Hush thy complaints, nor quarrel with thy God;
If just the stroke, approve and kifs the rod.
By man if injur'd, turn thy eyes within;
Thou'lt find recorded fome unpunish'd fin;
Then heav'n acquit: and with regard to man,
Coolly th' amount of good and evil scan;
If greater evils wait the wifh'd redress,
Grieve not that thou art free to chufe the less.
Unknown to courts, ambition's thirst subdu'd,
My leffon is to be obfcurely good;

In life's ftill fhade, which no man's envy draws,
To reap the fruit of government and laws,
In fortune's round, as on the globe I know
No top, no bottom, no where high or low;
Where-ever station'd, heav'n in prospect still,
That points to me, the zenith of her wheel.

"What! double tax'd, unpenfion'd, unprefer'd,
"In fuch bad times be easy? most abfurd!'
Yet heav'n vouchsafes the daily bread intreated;
And these bad times have left me free to eat it :
My taxes, gladly paid, their nature shift;
If juft, cheap purchase; if unjust, a gift:
Nor knows ambition any rank so great;
My fervants, kings, and minifters of state!

Legum idcirco fervi fumus, ut liberi esse poffimus. Cic.

They watch my couch, my humble roof defend;
Their toil the means, my happiness the end.

My freedom to compleat, convinc'd I fee
Thy fervice, Heav'n, is perfect LIBERTY.
The will, conform'd to thy celestial voice,
Knows no reftraint! for duty is her choice:
What ills thou fendeft, thankfully approve,
As kind corrections, pledges of thy love ;
In every change, whatever ftage I run,
My daily with fucceeds; THY WILL BE DONE.

A N

EPISTLE

FROM A

Swiss Officer to his Friend at Rome.

ROM horrid mountains ever hid in fnow,

And barren lands, and dreary plains below;

To you, dear fir, my beft regards I fend,

The weakest reafoner, as the truest friend.

PLUT. de Audit,

Τῷ λόγῷ τὰς ἑπομήνες ὄξιον ἔσι μόνος ἐλευθέρας νο-
μίζειν.
Μόνοι γὰρ ἅ δὲ βέλεσθαι μαθόντες ὡς βέλονται ζῶσι.

Ibid.

Your

Your arguments, that vainly ftrive to please,
Your arts, your country, and your palaces;
What figns of Roman grandeur still remain-
Much you have faid; and much have faid in vain.
Fine pageants these for flaves, to please the eye;
And put the neatest dress on mifery!

Bred up to flav'ry and diffembled pain,
Unhappy man! you trifle with your chain:
But should your friend with your defires comply,
And fell himself to Rome and flav'ry;

He could not wear his trammels with that art,
Or hide the noble anguish of his heart:
You'd foon repent the livery that you gave;
For, truft me, I should make an aukward flave.

Falfely you blame Our barren rocks and plains,
Happy in freedom and laborious fwains;
Our peasants chearful to the field repair,
And can enjoy the labours of the year;

Whilft yours, beneath fome tree, with mournful eyes,
Sees for his haughty lord his harvests rise :
Then filent fighs; but stops his flavish breath :
He filent fighs for fhould he fpeak, 'tis death.
Hence from our field the lazy grain we call,
Too much for want, for luxury too small:
Whilft all Campania's rich inviting foil

Scarce knows the plowfhare, or the reaper's toil.

In arms we breed our youth. To dart from far,
And aim aright the thunder of the war;

To