Or fome old temple, nodding to its fall,
For Chartres' head referve the hanging wall?
But ftill this world (fo fitted for the knave)
Contents us not. A better shall we have?
A kingdom of the Juft then let it be:
But first confider how thofe Just agree.
The good muft merit God's peculiar care;
But who, but God, can tell us who they are?
One thinks on Calvin Heav'n's own fpirit fell;
Another deems him inftrument of hell;
If Calvin feel Heav'n's bleffing, or its rod,
This cries there is, and that, there is no God.
What shocks one part, will edify the rest,
Nor with one fyftem can they all be bleft.
Give each a System, all must be at ftrife;
What diff'rent Systems for a Man and Wife?
The very best will variously incline,
And what rewards your Virtue, punish mine.
WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT. This world, 'tis true, Was made for Cæfar --- but for Titus too:
And which more bleft? who chain'd his country, fay,
Or he whofe Virtue figh'd to lofe a day?
" But fometimes Virtue ftarves, while Vice is fed.
What then? Is the reward of Virtue bread?
That, Vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil;
The knave deserves it, when he tills the foil,
The knave deferves it, when he tempts the main,
Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain.
The good man may be weak, be indolent;
Nor is his claim to plenty, but content.
But grant him riches, your demand is o'er?
No shall the good want Health, the good want Pow'r?"
Add Health, and Pow'r, and ev'ry earthly thing,
"Why bounded Pow'r? why private? why no king?"
Nay, why external for internal giv'n?
Why is not Man a God, and Earth a Heav'n?
Who ask and reason thus, will fcarce conceive
God gives enough, while he has more to give;
Immenfe the pow'r, immenfe were the demand;
Say, at what part of nature will they stand?
What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy,
The foul's calm fun-shine, and the heart-felt joy,
Is Virtue's prize: A better would you fix?
Then give Humility a coach and fix,
Juftice a Conqu'ror's fword, or Truth a gown,
Or Public Spirit its great. cure, a Crown,
Weak, foolish man! will Heav'n reward us there
With the fame trash mad mortals wish for here?
The Boy and Man an individual makes,
Yet figh'ft thou now for apples and for cakes?
Go, like the Indian, in another life
Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife:
As well as dream fuch trifles are affign'd,
As toys and empires, for a god-like mind.
Rewards, that either would to Virtue bring
No joy, or be destructive of the thing:
How oft by thefe at fixty are undone
(The virtues of a faint at twenty-one!
To whom can Riches give Repute, or Truft,
Content, or Pleafure, but the Good and Juft?
Judges and Senates have been bought for gold,
Efteem and Love were never to be fold.
Oh fool! to think God hates the worthy mind,
The lover and the love of human-kind,
Whofe life is healthful, and whofe confcience clear,
Because he wants a thoufand pound a year.
Honour and shame from no Condition rife;
Act well your part, there all the honour lies.
Fortune in Men has fome fmall diff'rence made,
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade;
The cobler apron'd, and the parfon gown'd,
The frier hooded, and the monarch crown'd.
What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl!"
I'll tell you, friend! a wife man and a Fool.
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,
Or, cobler-like, the parfon will be drunk,
Worth makes the man, and want of it, the fellow; 205
The reft is all but leather or prunella.
Stuck o'er with titles and hung round with ftrings,
That thou may't be by kings, or whores of kings.
Boaft the pure blood of an illuftrious race,
In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece:
But by your father's worth if your's you rate,
Count me thofe only who were good and great.
Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood
Has crept thro' fcoundrels ever fince the flood,
Go! and pretend your family is young;
Nor own, your fathers have been fools fo long.
What can ennoble fots, or slaves, or cowards?
Alas! not all the blood of all the How ARDS?
Look next on Greatnefs; fay where Greatnefs lies?
"Where, but among the Heroes and the Wife?"
Heroes are much the fame, the point's aggreed,
From Macedonia's madman to the Swede;
The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find
Or make, an enemy of all mankind!
Not one looks backward, onward ftill he goes,
Yet ne'er looks forward further than his nofe.
No lefs alike the Politic and Wife;
All sly slow things, with circumfpective eyes:
Men in their loose unguarded, hours they take,
Not that themselves are wife, but others weak.
But grant that thofe can conquer, these can cheat;
'Tis phrase abfurd to call a Villain Great:
Who wickedly is wife, or madly brave,
Is but the more a fool; the more a knave.
Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
Or failing, fmiles in exile or in chains,
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed
Like Socrates, that Man is great indeed.
What's Fame? a fancy'd life in others breath,
A thing beyond us, ev'n before our death.
Juft what you hear, you have, and what's unknown
The fame (my Lord) if Tully's, or your own.
All that we feel of it begins and ends
In the fmall circle of our foes or friends;
To all befide as much an empty shade
An Eugene living, as a Cæfar dead;
Alike or when, or where, they shone, or shine,
Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine.
A wit's a feather, and a Chief a rod;
An honeft Man's the noble work of God,
Fame but from death a villain's name can fave,
As Juftice tears his body from the grave;
When what t'oblivion better were refign'd,
Is hung on high, to poifon half mankind.
All fame is foreign, but of true defert;
Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart:
One felf-approving hour whole years out-weighs
Of ftupid ftarers, and of loud huzzas;
And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels,
Than Cæfar with a fenate at his heels.
In Parts fuperior what advantage lies?
Tell (for You can) what is it to be wife?
'Tis but to know how little can be known;
To fee all others faults, and feel our own:
Condemn'd in bus'nefs or in arts to drudge,
Without a fecond, or without a judge:
Truths would you teach, or fave a finking land?
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
Painful prehemience! yourself to view
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too,
Bring then these bleffings to a strict account;
Make fair deductions; fee to what they mount:
How much of other each is fure to coft;
How each for other oft is wholly loft;
How inconfiftent greater goods with thefe;
How fometimes life is rifqu'd, and always eafe:
Think, and if still the things thy envy call,
Say, would't thou be the Man to whom they fall?
To figh for ribbands if thou art fo filly,
Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy.
Is yellow dirt the paffion of thy life?
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife.
If Parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd,
The wifeft, brightest, meaneft of mankind:
Or ravish'd with the whistling of a Name,
See Cromwell, damn'd to everlasting fame!
If all, united, thy ambition call,
From ancient story, learn to fcorn them all.
There, in the rich, the honour'd, fam'd, and great,
See the falfe fcale of Happiness complete!
In hearts of Kings, or arms of Queens who lay,
How happy thofe to ruin, these betray,
Mark by what wretched fteps their glory grows,
From dirt and fea-weed as proud Venice rofe?
In each how guilt and greatnefs equal ran,
And all that rais'd the Hero, funk the Man:
Now Europe's laurels on their brows behold,
But ftain'd with blood, or ill exchang'd for gold:
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