TO L. BOLINGBROKE.
ST. JOHN, whofe love indulg'd my labours paft,
Matures my present, and shall bound my last!
Why will you break the fabbath of my days?
Now fick alike of envy and of praise.
Public too long, ah let me hide my age!
See modeft Cibber now has left the stage:
Our gen'rals now, retir'd to their estates,
Hang their old trophies o'er the garden gates,
In life's cool ev'ning fatiate of applause,
Nor fond of bleeding, ev'n in Brunswick's cause.
A voice there is, that whispers in my ear,
('Tis reafon's voice, which fometimes one can hear)
>> Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Mufe take breath,
» And never gallop Pegafus to death;
» Left ftiff, and stately, void of fire or force,
» You limp, like Blackmore on a lord mayor's horse «. Farewell then verfe, and love, and ev'ry toy,
The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy;
What right, what true, what fit we justly call,
Let this be all my care- for this is all :
To lay this harvest up, and hoard with hafte
What ev'ry day will want, and most, the last.
But ask not, to what doctors I apply!
Sworn to no mafter, of no fect am I :
As drives the ftorm, at any door I knock :
And house with Montagne now, or now with Locke:
Sometimes a patriot, active in debate,
Mix with the world, and battle for the state,
Free as young Lyttelton, her cause purfue,
Still true to virtue, and as warm as true:
Sometimes with Ariftippus, or St. Paul,
Indulge my candor, and grow all to all ;
Back to my native moderation flide,
And win my way by yielding to the tide.
Long, as to him who works for debt, the day,
Long as the night to her whose love's away,
Long as the year's dull circle feems to run,
When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one :
So flow th' unprofitable moments roll,
That lock up all the functions of my foul;
That keep me from myself; and ftill delay
Life's inftant business to a future day:
That task, which as we follow, or despise,
The eldest is a fool, the youngest wife.
Which done, the pooreft can no wants endure;
And which not done, the richest must be poor.
Late as it is, I put myself to school,
And feel fome comfort, not to be a fool.
Weak tho' I am of limb, and short of fight,
Far from a lynx, and not a giant quite ;
I'll do what Mead and Chefelden advise,
To keep thefe limbs, and to preserve these eyes.
Not to go back, is fomewhat to advance,
And men must walk at least before they dance.
Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bofom move
With wretched av'rice, or as wretched love?
Know, there are words and fpells, which can controll
Between the fits this fever of the foul:
Know, there are thymes, which fresh and fresh apply'd
Will cure the arrant'ft puppy of his pride.
Be furious, envious, flothful, mad, or drunk,
Slave to a wife, or vassal to a punk,
A Switz, a High-dutch, or a Low-dutch bear;
All that we ask is but a patient ear.
'Tis the first virtue, vices to abhor;
And the first wifdom, to be fool no more.
But to the world no bugbear is fo great,
As want of figure, and a small eftate.
To either India fee the merchant fly,
Scar'd at the spectre of pale poverty!
See him, with pains of body, pangs of foul,
Burn through the tropic, freeze beneath the pole!
Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end,
Nothing, to make philosophy thy friend?
To ftop thy foolish views, thy long defires,
And ease thy heart of all that it admires?
Here, wifdom calls: »> Seek virtue firft, be bold!
>> As gold to filver, virtue is to gold «.
There, London's voice: » Get money, money still!
» And then let virtue follow, if she will «<.
This, this the saving do&trine, preach'd to all,
From low St. James's up to high St. Paul;
From him whofe quills ftand quiver'd at his ear
To him who notches fticks at Westminster.
Barnard in fpirit, fenfe, and truth abounds;
» Pray then, what wants he «? Fourfcore thoufand pounds;
A penfion, or fuch harness for a flave,
As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.
Barnard, thou art a cit, with all thy worth;
But Bug and D**1, Their Honours, and fo forth.
Yet ev'ry child another fong will fing,
» Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king «,
True, confcious honour is to feel no fin,
He's arm'd without that's innocent within;
Be this thy fcreen, and this thy wall of brass;
Compar'd to this a minister's an afs.
And fay, to which shall our applaufe belong,
This new court jargon, or the good old fong?
The modern language of corrupted peers,
Or what was fpoke at Creffy and Poitiers?
Who counfels beft? who whispers: >> Be but great,
» With praife or infamy leave that to fate;
>> Get place and wealth, if poffible, with grace;
» If not, by any means get wealth and place «.
For what? to have a box where eunuchs fing,
And foremost in the circle eye a king.
Or he, who bids thee face with fteady view
Proud fortune, and look shallow greatness thro':
And, while he bids thee, fets th' example too?
If fuch a doctrine, in St. James's air,
Shou'd chance to make the well-dreft rabble ftare;
If honeft S*z take fcandal at a fpark,
That lefs admires the palace than the park:
Faith I shall give the answer Reynard gave:
>> I cannot like, dead Sir, your royal cave:
» Because I fee, by all the tracks about,
>> Full many a beaft goes in, but none come out «<,
Adieu to virtue, if you're once a flave:
Send her to court, you fend her to her grave,
Well, if a king's a lion, at the least
The people are a many-headed beast:
Can they direct what measures to pursue,
Who know themselves fo little what to do?
Alike in nothing but one luft of gold,
Just half the land would buy, and half be fold :
Their country's wealth our mightier misers drain,
Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main ;
The reft, fome farm the poor-box, fome the pews;
Some keep affemblies, and would keep the stews;
Some with fat bucks on childlefs dotards fawn;
Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn;
While with the filent growth of ten per cent,
In dirt and darkness, hundreds ftink content.
Of all these ways, if each pursues his own,
Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone:
But shew me one who has it in his pow'r
To act confiftent with himself an hour.
Sir Job fail'd forth, the ev'ning bright and ftill,
» No place on earth (he cry'd ) like Greenwich hill!
Up ftarts a palace, lo, th' obedient base
Slopes at its foot, the woods its fides embrace,
The filver Thames reflects its marble face.
Now let fome whimfy, or that dev❜l within
Which guides all those who know not what they mean,
But give the knight (or give his lady) spleen;
» Away, away! take all your scaffolds down
For fnug's the word: my dear! we'll live in town.
At am'rous Flavio is the stocking thrown?
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