Free-mason, rake, or wit, 'tis just the same,
The charm is hence, he has gain'd himself a name.
Yet, fpite of all the fools that pride has made,
'Tis not on man an useless burthen laid;
Pride has ennobled fome, and some disgrac'd;
It hurts not in itself, but as 'tis plac'd;
When right, its view knows none but virtue's bound;
When wrong, it scarcely looks one inch around.
Mark with what care the fair one's critic eye
Scans o'er her drefs, nor let's a fault flip by;
Each rebel hair must be reduc'd to place
With tedious skill, and tortur'd into grace;
Betty must o'er and o'er the pins difpofe,
'Till into modifh folds the drapery flows,
And the whole frame is fitted to express
The charms of decency and nakedness.
Why all this art, this labour'd ornament?
To captivate, you'll cry, no doubt, 'tis meant.
True. But let's wait upon this fair machine
From the lone closet to the social scene;
There view her loud, affected, fcornful, four,
Paining all others, and herself still more.
What means fhe, at one inftant to difgrace,
The labour of ten hours, her much-lov'd face?
Why, 'tis the felf-fame paffion gratify'd;
The work is ruin'd, that was rais'd by pride.
Yet of all tempers, it requires least pain,
Could we but rule ourselves, to rule the vain.'
The prudent is by reason only fway'd,
With him each sentence and each word is weigh'd;
The gay and giddy can alone be caught
By the quick luftre of a happy thought;
The miser hates, unless he fteals your pelf;
The prodigal, unless you rob yourself;
The lewd will fhun you, if your wife prove
The jealous, if a smile on his be caft;
The steady or the whimsical will blame,
Either, because you're not, or are the fame;
The peevish, sullen, fhrewd, luxurious, rash,
Will with your virtue, peace, or intereft, clash;
But mark the proud man's price, how very low!
'Tis but a civil fpeech, a smile, or bow.
Ye who push'd on by noble ardour, aim
In focial life to gain immortal fame,
Obferve the various paffions of mankind,
General, peculiar, fingle or combin'd:
How youth from manhood differs in its views,
And how old age ftill other paths pursues ;
How zeal in Prifcus nothing more than heats,
In Codex burns, and ruins all it meets;
How freedom now a lovely face fhall wear,
Now fhock us in the likeness of a bear;
How jealousy in some resembles hate,
In others, seems but love grown delicate;
How modesty is often pride refin'd,
And virtue but the canker of the mind;
How love of riches, grandeur, life, and fame,
Wear different shapes, and yet are still the fame.
But not our paffions only disagree,
In taste is found as great variety:
Sylvius is ravish'd when he hears a hound,
His lady hates to death the odious found:
Yet both love mufic, though in different ways;
He in a kennel, fhe at opera's.
A florist shall, perhaps, not grudge fome hours,
To view the colours in a bed of flowers;
Yet, fhew him TITIAN'S Workmanship divine,
He paffes on, and only cries, 'tis fine.
A rufty coin, an old worm-eaten post,
The mouldy fragment of an author loft,
A butterfly, an equipage, a ftar,
A globe, a fine lac'd hat, a china jar,
A mistress, or a fashion that is new,
Have each their charms, though felt but by a few.
Then study each man's paffion and his taste,
The first to soften, and indulge the last:
Not like the wretch, who beats down virtue's fence,
And deviates from the path of common sense;
Who daubs with fulfome flattery, blind and bold,
The very weakness we with grief behold.
Paffions are common to the fool and wise,
And all would hide them under art's disguise;
For fo avow'd, in others, is their shame,
None hates them more, than he who has the fame.
But taste seems more peculiarly our own,
And every man is fond to make his known;
Proud of a mark he fancies is defign'd
By nature to advance him o'er his kind;
And where he fees that character imprefs'd,
With joy he hugs the favourite to his breaft.
But the main ftrefs of all our cares muft lie,
To watch ourselves with ftrict and conftant eye:
To mark the working mind, when paffion's course
Begins to fwell, and reason still has force;
Or, if she's conquer'd by the ftronger tide,
Obferve the moments when they first subside;
For he who hopes a victory to win
O'er other men, muft with himself begin;
Elfe like a town by mutiny opprefs'd,
He's ruin'd by the foe within his breast;
And they alone, who in themselves oft view
Man's image, know what method to pursue.
All other creatures keep in beaten ways,
Man only moves in an eternal maze:
He lives and dies, not tam'd by cultivation,
The wretch of reason, and the dupe of paffion;
Curious of knowing, yet too proud to learn;
More prone to doubt, than anxious to difcern:
Tir'd with old doctrines, prejudic'd at new;
Miftaking still the pleasing for the true;
Foe to restraints approv'd by genʼral voice,
Yet to each fool-born mode a slave by choice:
Of reft impatient, yet in love with ease;
When moft good-natur'd, aiming how to teaze:
Difdaining by the vulgar to be aw'd,
Yet never pleas'd but when the fools applaud :
By turns fevere, indulgent, humble, vain;
A trifle ferves to lose him or to gain.
grant this trifle, yet his vices fhun,
Not like to CATO or to a CLINIAS' fon :
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