Sometimes with Aristippus, or St. Paul,
Indulge my candour, and grow all to all;
Back to my native moderation slide,
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 seems to run,
When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one;
So slow th' unprofitable moments roll,
That lock up all the functions of my soul;
That keep me from myself; and still delay
Life's instant business to a future day;
That task, which as we follow or despise,
The eldest is a fool, the youngest wise :
Which done, the poorest can no wants endure;
And which not done, the richest must be poor.
Late as it is, I put myself to school,
And feel some comfort not to be a fool.
Weak though I am of limb, and short of sight,
Far from a lynx and not a giant quite,
I'll do what Mead and Cheselden advise,
To keep these limbs, and to preserve these eyes.
Not to go back, is somewhat to advance,
And men must walk at least before they dance.
Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bosom move
With wretched avarice, or as wretched love?
Know there are words and spells which can con-
Between the fits, this fever of the soul: [trol,
Know there are rhymes, which fresh and fresh ap-
Will.cure the arrant'st puppy of his pride. [ply'd,
Be furious, envious, slothful, 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 wisdom, to be fool no more.
But to the world no bugbear is so great,
As want of figure, and a small estate.
To either India see the merchant fly,
Scar'd at the spectre of pale poverty!
See him, with pains of body, pangs of soul,
Burn through the tropic, freeze beneath the pole !
Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end,
Nothing to make philosophy thy friend?
To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires,
And ease thy heart of all that it admires?
Here wisdom calls: Seek virtue first, be bold!
As gold to silver, virtue is to gold.'
There, London's voice, 'Get money, money still!
And then let virtue follow, if she will.'
This, this the saving doctrine, preach'd to all,
From low St. James's up to high St. Paul!
From him whose quills stand quiver'd at his ear,
To him who notches sticks at Westminster.
Bernard in spirit, sense, and truth abounds;
Pray then what wants he?" fourscore thousand
A peusion, or such harness for a slave [pounds;
As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.
Barnard, thou art a cit with all thy worth;
But Bug and D*], their honours, and so forth.
Yet every child another song will sing,
Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king.'
True, conscious honour is to feel no sin,
He's arm'd without that's innocent within;
Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass;
Compar'd to this, a minister's an ass.
And say, to which shall our applause belong, This new court-jargon, or the good old song? The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy or Poitiers? Who counsels best? who whispers, Be but great, With praise or infamy leave that to fate; Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace; If not, by any means get wealth and place:' For what? to have a box where eunuchs sing, And foremost in the circle eye a king: Or he, who bids thee face with steady view Proud fortune, and look shallow geartness thro': And while he bids thee, sets th' example too?
If such a doctrine, in St. James's air,
Should chance to make the well-drest rabble stare;
In honest S*z take scandal at a spark,
That less admires the palace than the park:
Faith I shall give the answer Reynard gave:
I cannot like, dread sire, your royal cave;
Because I see, by all the tracts about,
Full many a beast goes in, but none come out.'
Adieu to virtue, if you're once a slave:
Send her to court, you send 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 so little what to do?
Alike in nothing but one lust of gold,
Just half the land would buy, and half be sold:
Their country's wealth our mightier misers drain,
Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main;
The rest, some farm the poor-box, some the pews;
Some keep assemblies, and would keep the stews;
Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn;
Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn;
While with the silent growth of ten per cent,
In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content.
Of all these ways, if each pursues his own,
Satire, be kind, and let the wretch alone:
But show me one who has it in his pow'r
To act consistent with himself an hour.
Sir Job sail'd forth, the evening bright and still,
'No place on earth,' he cried, 'like Greenwich-hill !'
Up starts a palace, lo, th' obedieut base
Slopes at its foot, the woods its sides embrace,
The silver Thames reflect its marble face.
Now let some whimsy, or that devil within
Which guides all those who know not what they
Bút give the knight (or give his lady) spleen; 'Away, away! take all your scaffolds down, For snug's the word: my dear, we'll live in town.'
At amorous Flavio is the stocking thrown? 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,
Transform 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 sick, and damn the climate-like 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 lin❜d,
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 Chancery, nor to Hale apply;
Yet hang your lip to see a seam awry!
Careless how ill I with myself 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 op-
press'd;
Lov'd without youth, and follow'd without power;
At home, though exil'd; free, though in the Tower;
In short, that reasoning, high, immortal thing,
Just less than Jove, and much above a king;
Nay, half in heaven-except (what's mighty odd)
A fit of vapours clouds this demi-god!
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