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Or tir'd in search of truth, or fearch of rhyme;
Ill health fome juft indulgence may engage;
And more the fickness of long life, old age;
For fainting age what cordial drop remains,
If our intemp'rate youth the vessel drains?

Our fathers prais'd rank ven'son. You fuppofe
Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose.
Not fo: a buck was then a week's repast,
And'twas their point, I ween, to make it last ;
More pleas'd to keep it till their friends would come,
Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home.
Why had not I in thofe good times my birth,
Ere coxcomb-pyes or coxcombs were on earth?
Unworthy he, the voice of fame to hear,
That fweeteft mufic to an honest ear,

(For faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong,
The world's good word is better than a fong)
Who has not learn'd, fresh fturgeon and ham-pye
Are no rewards for want, and infamy!
When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf,

Curs'd by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself,
To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame,
Think how pofterity will treat thy name;
And buy a rope, that future times may tell
Thou haft at leaft beftow'd one penny well.

כל

Right, ( cries his Lordship, ) for a rogue in need To have a tafte is infolence indeed :

>> In me 'tis noble, fuits my birth and state,

» My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great. Then, like the fun, let bounty fpread her ray, And shine that fuperfluity away.

Oh impudence of wealth! with all thy ftore

How dar'ft thou let one worthy man be poor?

Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall?
Make keys, build bridges, or repair White-hall:
Or to thy country let that heap be lent,
As M** o's was, but not at five per cent.

Who thinks that fortune cannot change her mind, Prepares a dreadful jeft for all mankind.

And who ftands safest? tell me, is it he
That spreads and fwells in puff'd profperity,
Or bleft with little, whofe preventing care
In peace provides fit arms against a war ?

Thus Bethel fpoke, who always fpeaks his thought,
And always thinks the very thing he ought:
His equal mind I copy what I can,

And as I love, would imitate the man.

In fouth-fea days not happier, when furmis'd
The lord of thousands, than if now excis'd;
In forest planted by a father's hand,
Than in five acres now of rented land.
Content with little, I can piddle here.
On brocoli and mutton, round the year;
But ancient friends (tho' poor, or out of play)
That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.
'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards,

But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords:
To Hounflow-heath I point, and Banfted-down,
Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own:
From yon old walnut-tree a show'r shall fall;
And grapes, long ling'ring on my only wall,
And figs from ftandard and espalier join;
The dev'l is in you if you cannot dine:

Then chearful healths ( your mistress shall have place)
And, what's more rare, a poet shall fay grace.

Fortune not much of humbling me can boast:
Tho' double tax'd, how little have I loft?
My life's amusements have been just the same,
Before, and after standing armies came.
My lands are fold, my father's house is gone;
I'll hire another's; is not that my own,

And yours, my friends? thro' whose free-op'ning gate
None comes too early, none departs too late;
(For I, who hold fage Homer's rule the best,
Welcome the coming, fpeed the going guest.)
» Pray heav'n it laft! ( cries Swift) as you go on ;
>> I wish to God this houfe had been your own:
>> Pity! to build, without a fon or wife ;
» Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life «.
Well, if the use be mine, can it concern one,
Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon?
What's property? dear Swift! you see it alter
From you to me, from me to Peter Walter;
Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's share;
Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir;
Or, in pure equity (the cafe not clear)
The Chanc'ry takes your rents for twenty year:
At best, it falls to fome ungracious fon,

Who cries:» My father's damn'd, and all's my own «,

Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford,

Become the portion of a booby lord;

And Hemfley, once proud Buckingham's delight,

Slides to a fcriv'ner or a city knight.

Let lands and houfes have what lords they will,

Let us be fix'd, and our own masters still,

THE

FIRST EPISTLE

OF THE

FIRST BOOK

O F

HORACE.

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