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is this too little ? would you more than live?
Perhaps you think the poor might have their part;
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. 110
B. Who suffer thus, mere charity should own, Must act on motives powerful, though unknown.
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 sell so dear.
Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys?
122 Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum? Alas! they think a man will cost a plum.
Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold,
The crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
130 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 food (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,
140 And judges job, and bishops bite the town, 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
150 • 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 :
For though such motives folly you may call,
Hear then the truth: 'Tis Heaven each passion sends
Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. 170 Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store, Sees but a backward steward for the poor; This year a reservoir to keep and spare, The next a fountain, spouting through his heir, In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst, And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
Old Cotta shamed 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 ? 180 His court with nettles, moats with cresses stored, With soups unbought and salads bless'd his board ? If Cotta lived on pulse, it was no more Than Bramins, saints, and sages did before : To cram the rich was prodigal expense, And who would take the poor from Prov dence ? Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old hall, Silence without, and fasts within the wall; No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabour sound, No noontide bell invites the country round: 190 Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey, And turn their unwilling steeds another way: Benighted wanderers, the forest o’er, Cu the saved candle and unopening door ;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Not so his son : he mark'd this oversight,
200 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: 210 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 pope; And shall not Britain now reward his toils, Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils ? In vain 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, 220 Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursued, Not sunk by sloth, nor raised by servitude; To balance fortune by a just expense, Join with economy, magnificence; With splendour charity, with plenty health; O 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 given, And ease or emulate the care of Heaven;
236 (Whose measure full o'erflows on human race ;) Mend fortune's fault and justify her grace.
Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffused ;
P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats ? The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue
that cheats. Is there a lord, who knows a cheerful noon Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon ?
240 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 the oppress'd and raise the sinking heart? Where'er he shines, O Fortune, gild the scene, And ange's guard him in the golden mean! There, English bounty yet awhile may stand, And honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest muse! and sing the MAN OF Ross : 250 Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn 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 toss'd, 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 traveiler repose ? 260 Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? "The Man of Ross,'each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : IIe feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smiling at the gate : Him portion's maids, apprenticed orphans bless'd, The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives.