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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 lined, 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 You think this madness but a common case ;

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face,

Nor once to Chancery nor to Hale apply,
Yet hang your lip to see a seam awry !
Careless how ill Í 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 plunderd, honour'd while op-

press’d;
Loved without youth, and follow'd without power,
At home though exiled; 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 demi-god.

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BOOK I. EPISTLE IV'.

A MODERN IMITATION.

SAY, St. John, who alone peruse
With candid eye, the mimic Muse,

,
What schemes of politics, or laws,
In Gallic lands the patriot draws !
Is then a greater work in hand,
Than all the tomes of Haines's band ?

| This satire on Lord Bolingbroke, and the praise bestowed on him in a letter to Mr. Richardson, where Mr. Pope says,

The sons shall blush their fathers were bis foes ; being so contradictory, probably occasioned the former to be suppressed.

Or shoots he folly as it flies? Or catches manners as they rise ?' Or, urged by unquench'd native heat, Does St. John Greenwich sports repeat? Where (emulous of Chartres' fame) E'en Chartres' self is scarce a name.

To you (the' all-envied gift of Heaven) The' indulgent gods, unask'd, have given A form complete in every part, And, to enjoy that gift, the art. What could a tender mother's care Wish better to her favourite heir, Than wit, and fame, and lucky hours, A stock of health, and golden showers, And graceful fluency of speech, Precepts before unknown to teach?

Amidst thy various ebbs of fear, And gleaming hope, and black despair ; Yet let thy friend this truth impart; A truth I tell with bleeding heart, (In justice for your labours past) That every day shall be your last; That every hour you

life renew Is to your injured country due.

In spite of fears, of mercy spite, My genius still must rail, and write. Haste to thy Twickenham's safe retreat, And mingle with the grumbling great: There, half devour'd by spleen, you'll find The rhyming bubbler of mankind; There (objects of our mutual hate) We'll ridicule both church and state.

BOOK I. EPISTLE VI.

To Mr. Murrad.

(AFTERWARDS EARL OF MANSFIELD.)

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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-centred

stor that rise and fall, There are, my friend whose philosophic eyes Look through, and trust the Ruder with his skies; To him commit the hous, the day, the year, And view this dreadful an--without a fear.

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, Surprised at better, or surprised at worse. Thus good or bad, to one extreme betray The' unbalanced mind, and snatch the man away;

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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 on Tyrian dye,
Our birth-day nobles' splendid livery.
If not so pleased, 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, conspired
To form, not to admire, but be admired,
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 nay darken thine.
And what is fame? the meanest have their day;
The greatest can but blaze, and pass away.
Graced as thou art with all the power of words,
So known, so bonour'd, at the house of lords;
Conspicuous scene! another yet is nigh,
(More silent far) wbere 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 beaux invited over, And desperate misery lays hold on Dover. The case is easier in the mind's disease; There all men may be cured whene'er they please,

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