'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother.
About one vice, and fall into the other:
Between Excefs and Famine lies a mean;
Plain, but not fordid; tho' not fplendid, clean.
Avidien, or his Wife (no matter which,
For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch)
Sell their prefented partridges, and fruits,
And humbly live on rabbits and on roots:
One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine,
And is at once their vinegar and wine.

But on fome lucky day (as when they found
A lost Bank bill, or heard their son was drown'd)
At fuch a feaft, old vinegar to spare,

Is what two fouls fo gen'rous cannot bear:
Oil, tho' it ftink, they drop by drop impart,
But fowfe the cabbage with a bounteous heart.

He knows to live, who keeps the middle state,
And neither leans on this fide, nor on that;
Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay,
Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away;
Nor lets, like Naevius, ev'ry error pass,
The mufty wine, foul cloth, or greafy glass.
Now hear what bleffings Temperance can bring:
(Thus said our friend, and what he said I fing)
First Health: The stomach (cramm'd from ev'ry dish,
A tomb of boil'd and roast, and flesh and fish,
Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar,
And all the man is one intestine war)

Remembers of the School-boy's fimple fare,
The temp'rate fleeps, and spirits light as air.
VOL. III.

N

How pale, each Worshipful and Rev'rend guest Rife from a Clergy, or a City feast! What life in all that ample body, say? What heav'nly particle infpires the clay? The Soul fubfides, and wickedly inclines To feem but mortal, ev'n in sound Divines.

On morning wings how active springs the Mind That leaves the load of yesterday behind?

How eafy ev'ry labour it pursues ?

How coming to the Poet ev'ry Mufe?

Not but we may exceed, fome holy time,

Or tir'd in search of Truth, or search of Rhyme;
Ill health fome juft 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 veffel drains?

Our fathers prais'd rank Ven'son. You fuppofc,
Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose.
Not fo: a Buck was then a week's repast,
And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last;
More pleas'd to keep it till their friends could come,
Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home.
Why had not I in these 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 honeft ear;

(For 'faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong, The world's good word is better than a fong) 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 mankind a shame,
Think how posterity 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 infolence indeed:

"In me 'tis noble, fuits my birth and state,

My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great."
Then, like the Sun, let Bounty spread her ray,
And fhine that fuperfluity away.

Oh Impudence of wealth! with all thy store,
How dar'ft 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 cent.

Who thinks that fortune cannot change her mind, Prepares a dreadful jeft for all mankind.

And who stands fafeft? tell me, is it he
That spreads and swells in puff'd Prosperity,
Or bleft with little, whofe 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-fea days not happier, when furmis'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 mutton, 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, flounders, what my Thames affords :
To Hounslow-heath I point and Banfted-down,
Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own:
From yon old walnut-tree a fhow'r fhall 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:

Then chearful healths (your Mistress shall have place)
And, what's more rare, a Poet fhall fay Grace.
Fortune not much of humbling me can boast:
Tho' double tax'd, how little have I loft!
My life's amusements have been just the same,
Before, and after Standing Armies came.
My lands are fold, my father's houfe is gone;
I'll hire another's; is not that my own,

And your's, my friends? thro' whofe free-op'ning gate
None comes too early, none departs too late;
(For I, who hold fage Homer's rule the best,
Welcome the coming, fpeed the going guest.)
"Pray heav'n it laft! (cries SwIFT!) as you go on;
"I wish to God this houfe had been your own:

Pity! to build, without a fon or wife; "Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life."

Well, if the ufe 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 mortage, prove a Lawyer's fhare;
Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir;
Or in pure equity (the cafe not clear)

The Chanc'ry takes your rents for twenty year:
At best it falls to fome 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 houfes have what lords they will
Let us be fix'd, and our own masters still.

N 3