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And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your

thighs,

Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes.

His study with what authors is it stor❜d?
In books, not authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round;
These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound!
Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good,
For all his Lordship knows, but they are wood.
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look,
These shelves admit not any modern book.
And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the pride of pray'r :
Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,

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Make the soul dance upon a jig to heav'n.

On painted cielings you devoutly stare,

145

Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre.
On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all paradise before your eye.
To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall:
The rich buffet well-colour'd serpents grace,
And gaping tritons spew to wash your face.

150

Is

VER. 146. Verrio or Laguerre,] Verrio (Antonio) painted many cielings, &c. at Windsor, Hampton-Court, &c. and Laguerre at Blenheim-castle, and other places.

Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb.
A solemn sacrifice, perform'd in state,

155

You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.
So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear
Sancho's dread doctor, and his wand were there.
Between each act the trembling salvers ring,
From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,

161

And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,

Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,

165

Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;

I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,

And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill.

Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed;

Health to himself, and to his infants bread

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The lab'rer bears: What his hard heart denies,

His charitable vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden ear

Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre,
Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.

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Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil? Who plants like BATHURST, or who builds like BOYLE.

'Tis use alone that sanctifies expence,

And splendor borrows all her rays from sense.
His father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his neighbours glad, if he encrease :

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Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil,
Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil;
Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed
The milky heifer, and deserving steed;
Whose rising forests, not for pride or show,
But future buildings, future navies, grow:
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First shade a country, and then raise a town.
You too proceed! make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind,
(Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd)
Bid harbours open, public ways extend,
Bid temples, worthier of the God, ascend;
Bid the broad arch the dangʼrous flood contain,
The mole projected break the roaring main
Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
And roll obedient rivers thro' the land:
These honours, peace to happy BRITAIN brings,
These are imperial works, and worthy kings.

;

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EPISTLE V.

TO MR. ADDISON.

OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES ON MEDALS.

P

VOL. II.

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