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Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth: What though (the use of barbarous spits forgot) His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot? His court with nettles, moates with cresses stor'd, With soups unbought, and sallads bless'd his board ? If Cotta liv'd on pulse, it was no more Than Brahmins, saints, and sages, did before. To cram the rich was prodigal expense; And who would take the poor from Providence ? Like some lone chartreux stands the good old hall, Silence without, and fasts within the wall; No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound; No noon-tide bell invites the country round; Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey, And turn th' unwilling steeds another way; Benighted wanderers the forest o'er, Curse the sav'd candle, and unopening door; While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate, Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat. Not so his son; he mark'd this oversight, And then mistook reverse of wrong for right: (For what to shun, will not great knowledge need, But what to follow is a task indeed!) Yet sure of qualities deserving praise, More go to ruin fortunes than to raise. What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the capacious squire and deep divine! Yet no mean motive this profusion draws; His oxen perish in his country's cause: 'Tis George and Liberty that crowns the cup, And zeal for that great house which eats him up. The woods recede around the naked seat, The Sylvans groan—no matter-for the fleet: Next goes his wool---to clothe our valiant bands; Last, for his country's love, he sells his lands. To town he comes, completes the nation's hope, And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a popė. And shall not Britain now reward his toils, Britain! that pays her patriots with her spoils ? In yain at court the bankrupt pleads his cause ; His thankless country leaves him to her laws.

The sense to value riches, with the art To enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,

Not meanly nor ambitiously pursu'd,
Not sunk by sloth, nor rais'd by servitade;
To balance fortune by a just expense,
Join with economy magnificence;
With splendour charity, with plenty health,
0! teach us, Bathurst yet unspoil'd by wealth!
That secret rare between the extremes to move,
Of mad good-nature and of mean self love.

B. To worth or want well-weigh'd be bounty giv'n,
And ease or emulate the care of Heav'n;
(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race)
Mend fortune's fault, and justify her grace,
Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd,
As poison heals in just proportion us'd :
In heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies,
But well dispers’d, is incense to the skies.

P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eais? The wretch that trusts them and the rogue that

cheats. Is there a lord that knows a cheerful noon Without a fiddler, flatt'rer, or buffoon ? Whose table wit or modest merit share, Unelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player? Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part, To ease th’ oppress'd, and raise the sinking heart? Where'er he shines, o fortune! gild the scene, And angels guard him in the golden mean! There English bounty yet awhile may stand, And honour linger e'er it leaves the land.

But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross: Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Ševern hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry

brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless pouring through the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise ? “The Man of Ress," each lisping babe replies.

Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state,
Where age and want sit smiling at the gate:
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans blest,
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, and med'cine makes and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Baulk'd are the courts, and contest is no more :
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now au useless race.

B, Thrice happy inan! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
O! say what sums that gen’rous hand supply?
What mines to swell that boundless charity?

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possess'd---five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur! blush---proud courts! withdraw

your blaze; Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays!

B. And what! no monument, inscription, stone, His race, his form, his name, almost unknown?

P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his name. Go! search it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history: Enough that virtue fill'd the space between, Prov'd by the ends of being to have been. When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch who living sav'd a candle's end; Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands, Belies his features, nay, extends his hands ; That live-long wig, which Gorgon's self might own, Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone. Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend ! And see what comfort it affords our end. In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung; The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw, With tape-tied curtain, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed, Where tawney yellow 'strove with dirty red, Great Villiers liés-ala: ! how chang'd from hin,

That life of Pleasure, and that soul of whim !
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love ;
Or just as gay, at council, in a ring
Of maniac stăiesmen and their merry king ;
No wit to flatter, left of all his store;
No fool to laugh at, which he valu'd more;
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends!

His Grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, “Live like me,
As well his Grace replied, “Like you, sir John ?
That I can do, when all I have is gone!"
Resolve me, reason, which of these is worse,
Want with a full or with an empty purse ?
'Thy life more wretched, Cutler! was confess’al:
Arise and tell me, was thy death more bless'd ?
Cutler saw tenants break and houses fall;
For very want he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger's power,
For very want, he could not pay a dower;
A few gray bairs his reverend temples crown'd;
'Twas very want thai sold them for two pound.
What ev’n denied a cordial at liis end,
Banish'd the doctor, and expell’d the friend !
What but a want, which you perlaps think mail.
Yet numbers feel the want of what he had ?
Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim,
16 Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name !"

Say, forsuch worth are other worlds prepard ! Or are they both in this their own reward! A knotly point! to which we now proceedl. But you are tir'd---I'll tell a tale---L. Agreed.

P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies, There dwelt a citizen of sober same, A plain good man, and Balaam was his name ; Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth ; His word would pass for more than lie was worti. One solid dish his week-day meal affords, An added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's': Constant at church and 'change; lis gains were

sure, Ilis giving rare, save farthings to the poor.

The devil was piqu’d such saintship to behold, And long’d to tempt him, like good job of old : But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Rouz’d by the Prince of Air, the wirldwinds sweep The surge, and plunge his father in the deep, Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks : He takes his chirping pint and cracks his jokes. • Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word ; And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board.

Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, in honest factor stole a gem away; Ile pledg'd it to the Knight; the Knight had wit, So kept the di'mond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought,

I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice, And am so clear too of all other vice !"

The tempter saw his time, the work he plied ;
Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side,
Till all the dæmon makes his full descent,
In one abundant shower of cent. per cent.
Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole,
Then dubs Director, and secures his soul.

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,
Iscribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he call'd a blessing, now was wit,
And God's good providence, a lucky hit.
Things change their title as our manners turn;
llis compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn:
seldom at church ('twas such a busy life)
But duly sent his family and wife.
There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide
My good old lady catch'd a cold, and died.

A nymph of quality admires our knight;
He marries, bows at court, and grows polite;
Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair)
The well bred cuckolds in St. James's air;
First for his son a gay commission buys,
Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies :
His daughter flaunts a Viscount's tawdry wife;
She bears a coronet and p---x for life.

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