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What made Directors cheat in South-sea year !
To live on Ven’son when it sold so dear.
Ask you why Phryne the whole Auction buys?
Phryne foresees a general Excise.
Why she and Sappho rais'd that Monstrous fum ?
Alas! they fear a man will cost a plum.

Wise Peter sees the World's respect for Gold,
And therefore hopes this Nation may be fold :
Glorious ambition! Peter, swell thy store,
And be what Rome's great Didius was before

The Crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
To just three millions stinted modest Gage.
But nobler scenes Maria's dreams unfold,
Hereditary Realms, and worlds of Gold.
Congenial fouls! whose life one Av'rice joins,
And one fate buries in th’ Asturian Mines.

Much injur'd Liunt; why bears he Britain's hate? A wizard told him in there words our fate:

At length Corruption, like a general food, “ (So long by watchful Ministers with tood) " Shall deluge all; And Avarice creeping on, " Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the fun; " Statesman and Patriot ply alike the Stocks, • Peeress and Butler Mare alike the Box, “ And Judges job, and Bishops bite the town, “ And mighty Dukes pack cards for half a crown. " See Britain funk in lucres' fordid charms, [armis !"

And France reveng'd of Anne's and Edward's 'Twas no Court badge, great Scrivener, fir’d thy brain, Nor lordly Luxury, nor City Gain :

No, twas thy righteous end, alham'd to see
Senates degenerate, Patriots disagree,
And nobly wishing Party-rage to cease,
To buy both sides, and give thy Country peace.

“ All this is madness,” cries a sober sage: But who, my friend, has reason in his rage? 6. The ruling Passion, be it what it will, " The ruling Pallion conquers Reason fill." Less mad the wildest whimsey we can frame, Than even that passion, if it has no Aim; For tho' fuch motives folly you may call, The folly's greater to have none at all. Hear then the truth : “'Tis Heav'n each passion sends

And different men directs to different ends, " Extremes in Nature equal good produce, • Extremes in Man concur to general use." Aik we what makes one keep, and one bestow ? That Power who bids the ocean ebb and flow, Bids seed-time, harvest, equal course maintain, Thro' reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain, Builds Life on Death, on Change Duration founds, And gives th'eternal wheels to know their rounds.

Riches like insects, when conceal'd they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store, Sees but a backward steward for the Poor ;

year a Reservoir, to keep and spare; The next a Fountain, spouting thro' his Heir, In lavish streams to quench a Country's thirst, And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.



old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth,
Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth:
What tho' (the use of barb'rous fpits forgot)
His kitchen vy'd in coolness with his grot !
His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor’d,
With foups unbought and fallads bless'd his board!
If Cotta liv'd on puise, it was no more
Than Bramins, Saints, and Sages did before;
To cram the Rich was prodigal expence,
And who would take the Poor from Providence?
Like fome lone Chartreux stands the good old Hall,
Silence without, and faits within the wall;
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with lighs the smoakless towers survey,
And turn th' unwilling steeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curse the fav'd candle, and unop'ning door;
While the gaunt mastiff growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
· Not so his Son, he mark'd this oversight,
And then mistook reverse of wrong for right.
(For what to shun will no great knowledge need,
But what to follow, is a task indeed.)
Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise,
More go to ruin Fortunes, than to raise.
What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine,
Fill the capacious 'Squire, and deep Divine ?
Yet no mean motives this profusion draws,
His oxen perill in his country's cause;

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'Tis George and LIBERTY that crowns the cup,
And Zeal for that great House which eats him up.
The woods recede around the naked seat,
The Sylvans groan—no matter— for the Fleet :
Next goes his Wool- to cloath our valiant bands,
Last, for his Country's Love, he sells his Lands.
To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,
And heads the bold Train-bands, and burns a Pope.
And shall not Britain now reward his toils,
Britain, that pays her Patriots with her spoils ?
In vain at Court the Bankrupt pleads his cause,
His thankless Country leaves him to her Laws.

The Sense to value Riches, with the Art
T' enjoy them, and the Virtue to impart,
Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursu'd,
Not funk by floth, not rais'd by fervitude ;
To balance fortune by a just expence,
Join with Oeconomy, Magnificence;
With Splendor, Charity; with Plenty, Health;
Oh teach us, BATHURST! yet unspoil'd by wealth!
That secret rare, between th' extremes to move
Of mad Good-nature, and of mean Self-love.

B. To worth or want well-weigh’d, be bounty given,
And ease, or emulate, the care of Heaven;
(Whofe measure full o'er flows on human race)
Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace.
Wealth in the gross is death, but life ditus’d;
As poison heals, in just proportion us'd;
In heaps, like Ambergrisc, a stink it lies,
But well dispers’d, is incense to the skies.

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P. Who starves by Nobles, or with Nobles eats! The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats. Is there a Lord, who knows a chearful noon Without a Fiddler, Flatterer, or Buffoon ? Whofe table, Wit, or modest Merit share, Un-elbowed by Gamester, Pimp, or Player ? Who copies Your's, or Oxford's better part, To ease th’ oppress’d, and raise the sinking heart? Where-e'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the scene, And angels guard him in the golden Mean! There, English bounty, yet a-while may stand, And Honour linger ere it leaves the land.

But all our praise's why should Lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross: Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters fow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless, pouring thro' the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain, Whose Cause-way parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? • The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies. Behold the Market-place with poor o'erspread! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread; He feeds yon Alms-house, neat, but void of state, Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate;

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