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That very night he longs to lie alone. The fool, whose wife elopes some thrice a quarter , For matrimonial solace dies a martyr. Did ever Proteus, Merlin, any witch , Transforın themselves so strangely as the rich ? Well, but the poor_The poor have the same itch; They change their weekly barber, weekly news, Prefer a new japanner to their shoes, · Discharge their garrets, move their beds, and run ( They know not whither) in a chaise and one ; They hire their sculler , and when once aboard, Grow fick, and damn the climatelike a lord.

You laugh , half beau , half sloven if I stand, My wig all powder, and all snuff my band; You laugh, if coat and breeches strangely vary, White gloves, and linen worthy lady Mary! But when no prelate's lawn with hair-shirt lind, Is half so incoherent as my mind, When ( each opinion with the next at strife, One ebb and flow of follies all my life ) I plant, root up; I build, and then confound; Turn round to square, and square again to round; You never change one muscle of your face , You think this madness but a common case, Nor once to Chanc'ry; nor to Hale apply ; Yet hang your lip, to see a scam awry! Carelefs how illl with myseif agree , Kind to my dress, my figure, not to me. Is this my guide, philosopher, and friend? This he, who loves me, and who ought to mend ; Who ought to make me (what he can, or none, )

That man divine whom wisdom calls her own;
Great without title, without fortune bless'd;
Rich ev'n when plunder’d, honour'd while oppress’d;
Lord without youth, and follow'd without pow'r;
At home, tho’exild; free, tho' in the tow'r;
In short, that reas'ning, high, immortal thing,
Juft less than Jove , and much above a king
Nay, half in heav'n except ( what's mighty odd)
A fit of vapours clouds this demy-god.

THE

THE

SIXTH EPISTLE

OF THE
FIRST BOOK

OF

HO RA C E.

VOL II.

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