77. That riches, either to the avaricious or the pro digal, cannot afford happiness, scarcely necessaries ver. 89 to 160. That avarice is an absolute frenzy without an end or purpose, ver. 113, &c. 152. Conjectures about the motives of avaricious men, ver. 121 tc 153. That the conduct of men with respect to riches, can only be accounted for by the order of Providence, which works the general good out of extremes, and brings all to its great end by perpetual revolutions, ver. 161 to 178. How a miser acts upon principles which appear to him reasonable, ver. 179. How a prodigal does the same, ver. 199. The true medium, and true use of riches, ver. 219. The man of Ross, ver. 250. The fate of the profuse and the covetous, in two examples; both miserable in life and in death, ver. 300 &c. The story of Sir Balaam, ver. 339 to the end.

This epistle was written after a very violent outcry against our author, on a supposition that he had ridiculed a worthy nobleman, merely for his wrong taste. He justified himself upon that article in a letter to the Earl of Burlington; at the end of which are these words: 'I have learnt that there are some who would rather be wicked than ridiculous: and therefore it may be safer to attack vices than follies. I will therefore leave my betters in the quiet possession of their idols, their groves, and their high-places, and change my subject from their pride to their meanness, from their vanities to their miseries; and as the only cer tain way to avoid misconstructions, to lessen offence, and not to multiply ill-natured applications, I may probably in my next make use of real names instead of fictitious ones.'

P. WHO shall decide when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me? You hold the word, from Jove to Momus given, That man was made the standing jest of Heaven: And gold but sent to keep the fools in play, For some to heap, and some to throw away

But I, who think more highly of our kind,
(And, surely, Heaven and I are of a mind,)
Opine, that nature, as in duty bound,
Deep hid the shining mischief under ground
But when, by man's audacious labour won,
Flamed forth this rival to its sire the sun,
Then careful Heaven supplied two sorts of men,
To squander these, and those to hide again.

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Like doctors thus, when much dispute has pass'd, We find our tenets just the same at last : Both fairly owning riches, in effect,

No grace of Heaven, or token of the elect:

Given to the fool, the mad, the vain, the evil,
To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the devil.

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B. What nature wants, commodious gold bestows:

"Tis thus we eat the bread another sows.

P. But how unequal it bestows, observe;

Tis thus we riot, while, who sow it, starve:
What nature wants (a phrase I much distrust)
Extends to luxury, extends to lust:

Useful, I grant, it serves what life requires,
But, dreadful too, the dark assassin hires.

B. Trade it may help, society extend:

P. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend. 30

B. It raises armies in a nation's aid:

P. But bribes a senate, and the land 's betray'd.

In vain may heroes fight and patriots rave,

If secret gold sap on from knave to knave.
Once, we confess, beneath the patriot's cloak,
From the crack'd bag the dropping guinea spoke,
And jingling down the back stairs, told the crew,
'Old Cato is as great a rogue as you.'
Bless'd paper credit! last and best supply!
That lends corruption lighter wings to fly!
Gold, imp'd by thee, can compass hardest things,
Can pocket states, can fetch or carry kings:
A single leaf shall waft an army o'er,
Or ship off senates to some distant shore:

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A leaf like Sybil's, scatter to and fro

Our fates and fortunes, as the wind shall blow,
Pregnant with thousands flits the scrap unseen,
And silent sells a king or buys a queen.

Oh! that such bulky bribes as all might see,
Still, as of old, encumber'd villany!

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Could France or Rome divert our brave designs,
With all their brandies or with all their wines?
What could they more than knights and 'squires con.
found,

Or water all the quorum ten miles round?

A statesman's slumbers how this speech would spoil!
'Sir, Spain has sent a thousand jars of oil;
Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door;
A hundred oxen at your levee roar.'

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Poor avarice one torment more would find; Nor could profusion squander all in kind. Astride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet, And Worldly crying coals from street to street, Whom with a wig so wild and mien so mazed, Pity mistakes for some poor tradesman crazed. Had Colepepper's whole wealth been hops and hogs, Could he himself have sent it to the dogs? His grace will game: to White's a bull be led, With spurning heels and with a butting head: To White's be carried, as to ancient games, Fair coursers, vases, and alluring dames. Shall then Uxorio, if the stakes he sweep, Bear home six whores, and make his lady weep? Or soft Adonis, so perfumed and fine,

Drive to St. James's a whole herd of swine?

O filthy check on all industrious skill,

To spoil the nation's last great trade, quadrille !

Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall,
What say you? B. Say? Why, take it, gold and all.
P. What riches gives us, let us then inquire:
Meat, fire, and clothes. B. What more? P Meat,
clothes, and fire.

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is this too little? would you more than live?
Alas! 'tis more than Turner finds they give.
Alas! 'tis more than (all his visions pass'd)
Unhappy Wharton, waking, found at last!
What can they give? To dying Hopkins heirs?
To Chartres vigour? Japhet nose and ears?
Can they in gems bid pallid Hippia glow?
In Fulvia's buckle ease the throbs be'ow?
Or heal, old Narses, thy obscener ail,
With all the embroidery plaster'd at thy tail?
They might (were Harpax not too wise to spend)
Give Harpax' self the blessing of a friend;
Or find some doctor that would save the life
Of wretched Shylock, spite of Shylock's wife.
But thousands die, without or this or that,
Die, and endow a college or a cat.

To some, indeed, Heaven grants the happier fate,
To enrich a bastard, or a son they hate.

90

Perhaps you think the poor might have their part; Bond damns the poor, and hates them from his heart: The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule,

That every man in want is knave or fool:

'God cannot love,' says Blunt, with tearless eyes,
'The wretch he starves'-and piously denies :
But the good Bishop, with a meeker air,
Admits, and leaves them, Providence's care.

Yet, to be just to these poor men of pelf,
Each does but hate his neighbour as himself:
Damn'd to the mines, an equal fate betides
The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides.

B. Who suffer thus, mere charity should own, Must act on motives powerful, though unknown.

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110

P. Some war, some plague, or famine, they foresce, Some revelation hid from you and me.

Why Shylock wants a meal, the cause is found;
He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound.
What made directors cheat in South-sea year?
To live on venison when it sold so dear.

Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys?
Phryne foresees a general excise.
Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum?
Alas! they think a man will cost a plum.

120

Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold,
And therefore hopes this nation may be sold:
Glorious ambition! Peter, swell thy store,
And be what Rome's great Didius was before
The crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
To just three millions stinted modest Gago.
But nobler scenes Maria's dreams unfold,
Hereditary realms, and worlds of gold.
Congenial souls; whose life one avarice joins,
And one fate buries in the Asturian mines.
Much-injured Blunt! why bears he Britain's hate?

A wizard told him in these words our fate:
'At length corruption, like a general flood
(So long by watchful ministers withstood,)
Shall deluge all; and avarice creeping on,
Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun;
Statesman and patriot ply alike the stocks,
Peeress and butler share alike the box,
And judges job, and bishops bite the town,

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140

And mighty dukes pack cards for half-a-crown.
See Britain sunk in lucre's sordid charms,

And France revenged of Anne's and Edward's arms.' "Twas no court-badge, great scrivener! fired thy brain, Nor lordly luxury, nor city gain :

No, 'twas thy righteous end, ashamed to sec
Senates degenerate, patriots disagree,

And nobly wishing party-rage to cease,

To buy both sides, and give thy country peace
'All this is madness,' cries a sober sage:
But who, my friend, has reason in his rage?
The ruling passion, be it what it will,
The ruling passion, conquers reason still.'
Less mad the wildest whimsey we can frame,
Than ev'n that passion, if it has no aim:

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