To form, not to admire, but be admir'd,
Sigh while his Chloe, blind to wit and worth,
Weds the rich dulness of some son of earth?
Yet time ennobles or degrades each line;
It brighten'd Craggs's, and may darken thine.
And what is fame? the meanest have their day;
The greatest can but blaze and pass away.
Grac'd as thou art with all the power of words,
So known, so honour'd, at the house of lords:
Conspicuous scene! another yet is nigh,
(More silent far,) where kings and poets lie;
Where Murray (long enough his country's pride)
Shall be no more than Tully or than Hyde!
Rack'd with sciatics, martyr'd with the stone,
Will
any mortal let himself alone?
See Ward, by batter'd beaus invited over,
And desperate misery lays hold on Dover.
The case is easier in the mind's disease;
There all men may be cur'd whene'er they please.
Would ye be bless'd? despise low joys, low gains;
Disdain whatever Cornbury disdains;
Be virtuous, and be happy for your pains.
But art thou one whom new opinions sway,
One who believes as Tindal leads the way,
Who virtue and a church alike disowns,
Thinks that but words, and this but brick and
stones?
2 Whose father had been originally in a low situation. 3 Famous for his quack medicines: so was Dover.
Fly then on all the wings of wild desire,
Admire whate'er the maddest can admire.
Is wealth thy passion? hence! from pole to pole,
Where winds can carry, or where waves can roll;
For Indian spices, for Peruvian gold,
Prevent the greedy, and outbid the bold:
Advance thy golden mountain to the skies;
On the broad base of fifty thousand rise;
Add one round hundred, and (if that's not fair)
Add fifty more, and bring it to a square:
For, mark th'advantage; just so many score
Will gain a wife with half as many more,
Procure her beauty, make that beauty chaste,
And then such friends-as cannot fail to last.
A man of wealth is dubb'd a man of worth ;
Venus shall give him form, and Anstis birth.
(Believe me, many a German prince is worse,
Who proud of pedigree is poor of purse.)
His wealth brave Timon gloriously confounds;
Ask'd for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds;
Or if three ladies like a luckless play,
Takes the whole house upon the poet's day.
Now, in such exigencies not to need,
Upon my word you must be rich indeed :
A noble superfluity it craves,
Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves;
Something which for your honour they may cheat,
And which it much becomes you to forget.
If wealth alone then make and keep us blest,
Still, still be getting; never, never rest.
But if to power and place your passion lie,
If in the pomp of life consist the joy;
Then hire a slave, or (if you will) a lord,
To do the honours, and to give the word;
Tell at your levee, as the crowds approach,
To whom to nod, whom take into your coach,
Whom honour with your hand; to make remarks,
Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks:
'This may be troublesome, is near the chair;
That makes three members, this can choose a
mayor.'
Instructed thus, you bow, embrace, protest,
Adopt him son, or cousin at the least,
Then turn about, and laugh at your own jest.
Or if your life be one continued treat,
If to live well means nothing but to eat;
Up, up! cries Gluttony, 'tis break of day,
Go drive the deer, and drag the finny prey:
With hounds and horns go hunt an appetite-
So Russel did, but could not eat at night;
Call'd happy dog the beggar at his door,
And envied thirst and hunger to the poor.
Or shall we every decency confound,
Through taverns, stews, and bagnios, take our
round?
Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo
**I's lewd cargo, or Ty**y's crew,
From Latian Syrens, French Circæan feasts,
Return'd well travell'd, and transform'd to beasts; Or for a titled punk, or foreign flame,
Renounce our country, and degrade our name?
If, after all, we must with Wilmot 5 own
The cordial drop of life is love alone;
And Swift cry wisely,
The man that loves and laughs must sure do well.
Adieu-if this advice appear the worst,
E'en take the counsel which I gave you first:
Or better precepts if you can impart :
Why do I'll follow them with all my heart.
THE SEVENTH EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.
IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT.
'Tis true, my lord, I gave my word
I would be with you June the third;
Chang'd it to August, and (in short)
Have kept it as you do at court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetic?
In town what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in every street,
And funerals blackening all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores:
And what a dust in every place!
And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W and H** both in town!
'The dogdays are no more the case.' 'Tis true, but winter comes apace: Then southward let your bard retire, Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire, And you shall see the first warm weather Me and the butterflies together.
My lord, your favours well I know; "Tis with distinction you bestow, And not to every one that comes, Just as a Scotsman does his plums. 'Pray take them, sir-enough's a feast : Eat some, and pocket up the rest'— What, rob your boys? those pretty rogues! 'No, sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.' Thus fools with compliments besiege ye, Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your favours on a fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop ;
And 'tis but just, I'll tell ye wherefore:
You give the things you never care for.
A wise man always is or should
Be mighty ready to do good;
But makes a difference in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.
Now this I'll say, you'll find in me
A safe companion, and a free;
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