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Not so: a buck was then a week's repast,
And 'twas their point, Iween, to make it last;
More pleas’d to keep it till their friends could come, 95
Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home.
Why had not I in those 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 honest ear;
(For 'faith, lord Fanny ! you are in the wrong,
The world's good word is better than a song)
Who has not learn’d, fresh fturgeon and ham-pye
Are no rewards for want, and infamny!
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 pofterity 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 6 To have a taste is insolence indeed : " In me’tis noble, suits my birth and state, - My wealth unwieldly, and my heap too great." Then, like the sun, let bounty spread her ray, 115 And shine that superfluity away. O 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 Whitehall : 120 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,
Perhaps a dreadful jest for all mankind.
And who stands fafest? tell me, is it he

That spreads and swells in puff'd prosperity,
Or blest 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 fürmis'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..

of turn away.

140 '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; 145 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. 159

Fortune not much of humbling me can boast : Tho' doubly tax’d, how little have I lost! My life's amusements have been just the same, Before, and after standing armies came. My lands are sold, my father's house is gone; 155 I'll hire another's; is not that my own, And yours, my friends ? thro' whose free-op'ning gate None comes too early, none departs too late; (For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best, Welcome the coming, speed the going guest.) 160 “ 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 fon or wife; " Why you'll enjoy it only all your life.” Well, if the use 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 mortgage, 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 beft, it falls to some ungracious fon,
Who cries, “ My father's daina’d, and all's my own.”
Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford, 175
Become the portion of a booby lord;
And Hemsley, once proud Buckingham's delight, *
Slides to a scriv'ner of a city knight,
Let lands and houses $ have what lords they will,
Let us be fix'd, and our own masters ftill.


olie Villiers duke of Buckingham.

$ The turn of his imitation, in the concluding part, obliged him to diversify the sentiment. They are equally noble: but Horace's is expressed with the greater force.


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P I S T L E . I.

Publinick alike of enthe Sabbath of pound my laft:

CT. John, whose love indulg'd my labours past,
• Matures my present, and shall bound my laft!
Why will you break the Sabbath of my days?
Now fick alike of envy and of praise.
Public too long ah let me hide my age !
See modeft Cibber now has left the Itage :
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, ev'n in BRUNSWICK's cause. 10

A voice there is, that whispers in my ear, ('Tis Reason's voice, which sometimes one can hear) a Friend Pope ! be prudent, let your Muse take breath, " And never gallop Pegasus to death; “ Left stiff, and stately, void of fire or force, 15 “ You limp, like Blackmore * on a lord-mayor's horse.”

* The fame of this heavy poet, however problematical elsewhere, was universally recçived in the city of London. His versification is here exactly described : Itiff, and not strong; stately and yet dụll, like the sober and Now-paced animal generally employed to mount the lord-mayor : and there. fore here humorously opposed to Pegasus.


Farewell then verse and love, and ev'ry toy. The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy; What right, what true, what fit we justly call, Let this be all my care-for this is all :

To lay this harvest up, and hoard with hafte, What ev'ry day will want, and most, the last,

But ask not, to what doctors I apply? Sworn to no master, of no sect am I: As drives the storm, at any door I knock :

And house with Montagne now, or now with Locke,
Sometimes a patriot, active in debate,
Mix with the world, and battle for the state,
Free as young Lyttleton, her cause pursue,
Still true to virtue, and as warm as true ::
Sometimes with Ariftippus, or St. Paul,
Indulge my candor, 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 flow 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 tho’I am of limb, and short of fight,
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 leaft before they dance.


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