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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 insolence 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 shine that superlluity away.
Oh Impudence of wealth! with all thy store,
How dar'st 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 jest for all mankind.
And who stands fafest ? tell me, is it he
That spreads and swells in puff'd Prosperity,
Or bleft with little, whose 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-sea days not happier, when surmis'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, founders, what my Thames affords:
To Hounslow-heath I point and Bansted-down,
Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own:
From yon old walnut-tree a show'r shall 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 shall say Grace.

Fortune not much of humbling me can boast : Tho' double tax'd, how little have I lost! My life's amusements have been just the fame, Before, and after Standing Armies came. My lands are fold, my father's house is gone; I'll hire another's; is not that my own, And your's, my friends? thro’ whose free-op’ning gatě None comes too early, none departs too late; (For I, who hold fage Homer's rule the best, Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.) “ Pray heav'n it last! (cries Swift!) as you go on; “ I wish to God this house had been your own : " Pity! to build, without a son or wife;

Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life."

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Well, if the use be mine, can it concern one,
Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon?
What's

'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 share;
Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir;
Or in pure equity (the case not clear)
The Chanc'ry takes your rents for twenty year :
At best it falls to some 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 houses have what lords they willa,
Let us be fix’d, and our own masters still.

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St. John, whose love indulg’d my labours past,

Matures my present, and shall bound my last! Why will you break the Sabbath of my days? Now fick alike of Envy, and of of Praisc. Public too long, ah let me hide my Age! See modest 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 satiate of Applause, Nor fond of bleeding, evin in Brunswick's cause,

A voice there is, that whispers in my ear, ('Tis Reason's voice, which sometimes one can hear) " Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Muse take breath " And never gallop Pegasus to death;

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