Pray then, what wants he 2" Fourscore thousand

pounds;

A pension, or such harness for a slave

As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.
Barnard, thou art a cit, with all thy worth;

But Bug and D-1, their honours, and so forth.
Yet every child another song will sing:

"Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king."
True, conscious honour is to feel no sin,

He's armed without that's innocent within;
Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass;
Compared to this, a minister's an ass.

And say, to which shall our applause belong,
This new court jargon, or the good old song?
The modern language of corrupted peers,

Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poitiers?
Who counsels best? who whispers, "Be but great,
With praise or infamy leave that to fate;
Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace;
If not, by any means get wealth and place "-
For what? to have a box where eunuchs sing,
And foremost in the circle eye a king.

Or he, who bids thee face with steady view

Proud fortune, and look shallow greatness through:
And, while he bids thee, sets the example too?
If such a doctrine, in St. James's air,

Should chance to make the well-dressed rabble stare;
If honest Sz1 take scandal at a spark,
That less admires the palace than the park:
Faith I shall give the answer reynard gave:

1 Augustus Schutz, who held court offices near the person of George II., both before and after his accession to the throne.Carruthers.

"I cannot like, dread sir, your royal cave:
Because I see, by all the tracks about,

Full many a beast goes in, but none come out."
Adieu to virtue, if you're once a slave :

Send her to court, you send her to her grave.
Well, if a king's a lion, at the least

The people are a many-headed beast:
Can they direct what measures to pursue,
Who know themselves so little what to do?
Alike in nothing but one lust of gold,

Just half the land would buy, and half be sold:
Their country's wealth our mightier misers drain,
Or cross, to plunder provinces, the main;
The rest, some farm the poor-box, some the pews;
Some keep assemblies, and would keep the stews;
Some with fat bucks on childless dotards fawn;
Some win rich widows by their chine and brawn;
While with the silent growth of ten per cent,
In dirt and darkness, hundreds stink content.
Of all these ways, if each pursues his own,
Satire be kind, and let the wretch alone:
But show me one who has it in his power
To act consistent with himself an hour.

Sir Job sailed forth, the evening bright and still,
"No place on earth (he cried) like Greenwich hill!"
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 whimsy, or that devil within

120

130

140

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, 150 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)

160

I plant, root up; I build, and then confound;
Turn round to square, and square again to round; 170

You never change one muscle of your face,
You think this madness but a common case,
Nor once to Chancery, nor to Hale1 apply;
Yet hang your lip, to see a seam awry!
Careless how ill I with myself agree,
Kind to my dress, my figure, not to me.
Is this my guide, philosopher, and friend?

1 Dr. Hale, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, a physician employed in cases of insanity.-Carruthers,

180

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 blessed;
Rich even when plundered, honoured while oppressed;
Loved without youth, and followed 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.

THE SIXTH EPISTLE OF THE

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

EPISTLE VI.

TO MR. MURRAY.1

"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.2)

This vault of air, this congregated ball,
Self-centred sun, and stars that rise and fall,
There are, my friend! whose philosophic eyes
Look through, and trust the Ruler with his skies,
To him commit the hour, the day, the year,

And view this dreadful All without a fear.

ΙΟ

1 William Murray (a younger son of Lord Stormont) rose to the chief justiceship and an earldom.

2 From whose translation the first two lines of Horace are taken.

20

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;
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, or 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?