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 and 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 greatness through,
And, while he bids thee, sets th' example too?
If such a doctrine, in St. James's air,
Should chance to make the well dress'd rabble stare;
If 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 sir! your royal cave;
Because I see, by all the tracks 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 power
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, the obedient base
Slopes at its foot, the woods its sides embrace,
The silver Thames reflects its marble face.
Now let some whimsey, or that devil within
Which guides all those who know not what they

mean,

But 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 e'en 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 demigod.

THE SIXTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

TO MR. MURRAY.1

'NoT to admire, is all the art I know,

To make men happy, and to keep them so.'
(Plain truth, dear Murray! needs no flowers of
speech,

So take it in the very words of Creech.)
This vault of air, this congregated ball,
Self-center'd sun, and stars that rise and fall,
There are, my friend! whose philosophic eyes
Look through, and trust the Ruler with his skies;
To him commit the hour, the day, the year,
And view this dreadful all-without a fear.

Afterwards Lord Mansfield.

Admire we then what earth's low.entrails hold, Arabian shores, or Indian seas infold;

All the mad trade of fools and slaves for gold?
Or popularity? or stars and strings?

The mob's applauses, or the gifts of kings?
Say with what eyes we ought at courts to gaze,
And pay the great our homage of amaze?

If weak the pleasure that from these can spring,
The fear to want them is as weak a thing:
Whether we dread, or whether we desire,
In either case, believe me, we admire:
Whether we joy or grieve, the same the curse,
Surpris'd at better, or surpris'd at worse.
Thus good or bad, to one extreme betray
Th' unbalanc'd mind, and snatch the man away;
For virtue's self may too much zeal be had;
The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
Go then, and if you can, admire the state
Of beaming diamonds and reflected plate;
Procure a taste to double the surprise,

And gaze on Parian charms with learned eyes;
Be struck with bright brocade or Tyrian dye,
Our birthday nobles' splendid livery.
If not so pleas'd, at council board rejoice
To see their judgments hang upon thy voice;
From morn to night, at senate, rolls, and hall,
Plead much, read more, dine late, or not at all.
But wherefore all this labour, all this strife?
For fame, for riches, for a noble wife?

Shall one whom nature, learning, birth, conspir'd