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ween ,

Or tir'd in search of truth , or search of rlayme;
Ill health some just indulgence may engage ;
And more the sickness 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 suppose
Perhaps , young men! our fathers had no nose.
Not so: a buck was then a week's repast,
And'twas their point, I w 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 those good times my birth,
Ere coxcomb-pyes or coxcombs were on earth?

Unworthy he , the voice of fame to hear,
That sweetest music to an honest ear,
(For’faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong ,
The world's good word is better than a song)
Who has not learn’d, fresh sturgeon 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 inankind a shame,
Think how pofterity will treat thy name ;
And buy a rope, that future times may tell.
Thou hast at least bestow'd one penny well.

» Right, ( cries his Lordship,) for a rogue in need » To have a taste is insolence indeed : » In me 'tis noble, suits my birth and state, » My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too greatcom Then , like the sun, let bounty spread her ray, And shine that superfiuity away. Oh impudence of wealth! with all thy store

cent.

How dar'st 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

Who thinks that fortune cannot change her mind,
Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind.
And who stands fafest? tell me, is it he
That spreads and swells in puff?d prosperity,
Or bleft with little , whose preventing care
In peace provides fit arms against a war ?

Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks 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 south-sea days not happier, when surmis'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 inutton, 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, founders, what my Thames affords : To Hounslow-heath I point, and Bansted-down, Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own: From old walnut-tree a show'r shall fall; And grapes, long ling’ring on my only wall, And figs from standard and espalier join; The dev'l is in you if you cannot dine:

yon

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

Fortune not much of humbling me can boast: Tho' double tax'd, how little have I lost? My life's amusements have been just the same, Before , and after standing armies came. My lands are sold, 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 sage Homer's rule the best, Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.) » Pray heav'n it last! ( cries Swift ) as you go on; » I wish to God this house had been your own: » Pity! to build, without a son or wife ; » Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life ce 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 case not clear) The Chanc'ry takes your rents for twenty year: At best, it falls to some 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 Hemsley, once proud Buckingham's delight , Slides to a scriv'ner or a city knight. Let lands and houses have what tords they will, Let us be fix'd, and our own masters ftill,

THE

FIRST EPISTLE

OF THE

FIRST BOOK

OF

H OR A CE.

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