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Or just as gay, at council, in a ring
| What late he call'd a blessing, now was wit, Of mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king. And God's good providence, a lucky hit. No wit to flatter, left of all his store !
Things change their titles, as our manners turn : No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. His compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn: There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, Seldom at church, ('twas such a busy life,) And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. But duly sent his family and wife.
His grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide And well (he thought) advis'd him, “Live like me!" My good old lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd. As well his grace reply'd, “ Like you, Sir John ! A nymph of quality admires our knight; That I can do, when all I have is gone."
He marries, bows at court, and grows polite: Resolve me, Reason, which of these are worse, Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) Want with a full, or with an empty purse?
The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air : Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confess'd, First, for his son a gay commission buys, Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd ? Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies : Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall,
His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife; For very want he could not build a wall.
She bears a coronet and p-x for life. His only daughter in a stranger's power,
In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, For very want; he could not pay a dower.
And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains. A few grey hairs his reverend temples crown'd, My lady falls to play : so bad her chance, 'Twas very want that sold them for two pound. He must repair it; takes a bribe from France: What! ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end,
The house impeach him, Coningsby harangues ; Banish'd the doctor, and expellid the friend? The court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs : What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own, Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had ! His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown : Cutler and Brutus dying, both exclaim,
The devil and the king divide the prize,
To Richard BOYLE, EARL or Burlington.
OF THE USE OF RICHES.
The vanity of expense in people of wealth and And added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's :
quality. The abuse of the word taste. That Constant at church, and 'Change; his gains were the first principle and foundation in this, as in sure,
every thing else, is good sense. The chicf proof His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
of it is to follow Nature, even in works of mere The devil was piqu'd such saintship to behold, luxury and elegance. Instanced in architecture And long'd to tempt him, like good Jub of old; and gardening, where all must be adapted to the But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
genius and use of the place, and the beauties And tempts by making rich, not making poor. not forced into it, but resulting from it. How
Rous'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds sweep men are disappointed in their most expensive The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; undertakings, for want of this true foundation, Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, without which nothing can please long, if at all; And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. and the best examples and rules will be but perSir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
verted into something burthensome and ridiculous. He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes : A description of the false taste of magnificence; * Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word; the first grand errour of which is, to imagine that And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board. greatness consists in the size and dimension, inAsleep and naked as an Indian lay,
stead of the proportion and harmony of the whole; An honest factor stole a gem away :
and the second, either in joining together parts He pledg'd it to the knight, the knight had wit, incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit.
repetition of the same too frequently. A word or Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, two of false taste in books, in music, in painting, * I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; even in preaching and prayer, and lastly in enterWhere once I went to church, I'll now go twice tainments. Yet Providence is justified in giving And am so clear too of all other vice."
wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it The tempter saw his time : the work he ply'd; is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side,
mankind. What are the proper objects of magTill ali the demon makes his full descent
nificence, and a proper field for the expense of Io one abundant shower of cent per cent,
great men; and finally the great and public Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole,
works which become a prince Then dubs director, and secures his soul.
Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, 'Tis strange, the miser should bis cares employ Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy ;
Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste
The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste ? Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake: Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats;
Or cut wide views through inountains to the plain, Artists inust choose his pictures, music, meats: You'll wish your lill or shelter'd seat again. He buys for Topham drawings and designs; Ev'n in an ornament its place remark, For Pembroke statues, dirty gods, and coins; Nor in an hermitage set Dr. Clarke. Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone, Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete; And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane. His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet; Think we all these are for himself ? no more The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, Than his fine wife, alas ! or finer whore.
And strength of shade contends with strength of For what has Virro painted, built, and planted ?
light; Only to show how many tastes he wanted.
A waving glow the bloomy beds display,
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more;
Tir'd of the scene parterres and fountains yield, Sce! sportive Fate, to punish awkward pride, He finds at last he better likes a field. Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide: Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus A standing sermon, at each year's expense,
You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse, | With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet,
Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves ;
With all the mournful family of yews :
Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade. Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all
At Timon's villa let us pass a day, On some patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall; Where all cry out, “ What sums are thrown away!" Then clap four slices of pilaster on 't,
So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, That, lac'd with bits of rustic, makes a front. Soft and agreeable come never there. Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door ;
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. Conscious they act a true Palladian part,
To compass this, his building is a town, And if they starve, they starve by rules of art. | His pond an ocean, his parterre a down :
Oft have you hinted to your brother peer, | Who but must laugh, the master when he sees,
A puny insect, shivering at a breeze !
On every side you look, behold the wall!
No pleasing intricacies intervene, To rear the column, or the arch to bend,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene; To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot;
Grove nods at grove, each alley lias a brother, 1:1 all, let Nature never be forgot.
And half the platform just reflects the other But treat the goddess like a modest fair,
The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare ;
Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees; Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,
With here a fountain, never to be play'd; Where half the skill is decently to hide.
And there a summer-house that knows no shade; He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers; Surprizes, varies, and conceals the bounds. There gladiators fight, or die in Aowers; Consult the genius of the place in all ;
Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, That tells the waters or to rise, or fall;
And swallow's roost in Nilus' dusty um. Or helps th' ambitious bill the heavens to scale, My lord advances with majestic mien, Or scoops in circling theatres the vale ;
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen : Calls in the country, catches opening glades, But soft -- by regular approach — not yet Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat ; Now breaks, or now directs th' intending lines; | And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.
thighs, Still follow sense, of every art the soul,
Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole,
His study! with what authors is it stor'd ? Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
In books, not authors, curious is my lord; Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance; To all their dated backs he turns you round; Nature shall join you ; Time shall make it grow These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. work to wonder at - perhaps a Stow.
Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls; For all luis lordship knows, but they are wood. And Nero's terraces desert their walls :
For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look,
To Mr. Appisox.
OCCASIONED BY HIS DIALOGUES OX MEDALS. Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,
This was originally written in the year 1715, when Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
medals: it was some time before he was secreAnd bring all Paradise before your eye.
tary of state ; but not published till Mr. Tickell's To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite,
edition of his works; at which time his verses on Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.
Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were But bark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; added, viz. in 1720. A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall :
As the third Epistle treated of the extremes of The rich buffet well-colour'd serpents grace,
avarice and profusion; and the fourth took up And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.
one particular branch of the latter, namely, the Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
vanity of expense in people of wealth and quaNo, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb.
lity, and was, therefore, a corollary to the third ; A solemn sacrifice perform'd in state,
so this treats of one circumstance of that vanity, You drink by measure, and to minutes cat.
as it appears in the common collectors of old So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear
coins ; and is, therefore, a corollary to the Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there.
How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears,
With nodding arches, broken temples spread ! Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my lcave, The very tombs now vanish'd like their dead! Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
Imperial wonders rais’d on nations spoil'd, (toil'd: I curse such lavish cost, and little skill,
Where, mix'd with slaves, the groaning martyr And swear no day was ever pass'd so ill.
Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Yet hence the poor are cloth’d, the hungry fed ;
Now drain'd a distant country of her floods : Health to himself, and to his infants bread,
Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey; The labourer bears : What his hard heart denies, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! His charitable vanity supplies.
Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Another age shall see the golden ear
Some hostile fury, some religious rage.
Barbarian blindness, christian zeal conspire,
Perhaps, by its own ruins sav'd from flame,
And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.
The faithless column and the crumbling bust :
shore, Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil;
Their ruins perislı'd, and their place no more ! Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed
Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design, The milky heifer and deserving steed;
And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. Wbose rising forests, not for pride or show,
A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, But future buildings, future navies, grow : Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps; Lat his plantations stretch from down to down, Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, First shade a country, and then raise a town. And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
You too proceed ! make falling arts your care, | A small Euphrates through the piece is rollid, Erect new wonders, and the old repair ;
And little eagles wave their wings in gold. Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before :
Through climes and ages bears each form and name : Till kings call forth the ideas of your mind, In one short view subjected to our eye (Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd,) Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. Bid harbours open, public ways extend,
With sharpen'd sight pale antiquaries pore, Bid temples worthier of the God ascend;
Th'inscription value, but the rust adore, Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain,
This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The mole projected break the roaring main;
The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years ! Back to his bounds their subject sea command, To gain Pescenius one employs his schemes, And roll obedient rivers through the land;
One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams,
And Curio, restless by the fair-one's side,
Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine
Hor gods and godlike heroes rise to view, | I sit with sad civility; I read
With honest anguish, and an'aching head;
This saving counsel, “Keep your piece nine years," The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
“ Nine years !" cries he, who high in Drury-lane, And art reflected images to art.
Lull'd by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, | Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? Oblig'd by hunger and request of friends: In living medals see her wars enroll'd,
“ The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it ; And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold ? I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it." Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;
Three things another's modest wishes bound, There, warriors frowning in historic brass ?
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Then future ages with delight shall see
Pitholeon sends to me: “ You know his grace: How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agrec; I want a patron; ask him for a place." Or in fair series laurel'd bards be shown,
Pitholeon libellid me — “but here's a letter A Virgil there, and here an Addison :
Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine, On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine :
He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine."
Bless me! a packet. — “ 'Tis a stranger sues,
If I approve, “ Commend it to the stage."
Fir'd that the house reject him, “ 'Sdeath! I'll print And prais'd, unenvy'd, by the Muse he loved." And shame the fools- your interest, sir, with
“ Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.” EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT: All my demurs but double his attacks:
At last he whispers, “ Do; and we go snacks." BEING THE PROLOGUE TO THE SATIRES. Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
“ Sir, let me see your works and you no more." P. Shut, shut the door, good John ! fatigu'd, I said, 'Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. |(Midas, a sacred person and a king,) The Dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt, His very minister, who spy'd them first, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:
(Some say his queen,) was forc'd to speak, or burst. Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
| And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, They rave, recite, and madden round the land. | When every coxcomb perks them in my face? What walls can guard me, or what shades can A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous
hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. I'd never name queens, ministers, or kings; By land, by water, they renew the charge ; Keep close to ears, and those let asses prick, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. 'Tis nothing - P. Nothing ? if they bite and kick ? No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Out with it, Dunciad! let the secret pass, Ev'n Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me;
That secret to each fool, that he's an ass : Then from the mint walks forth the man of rlıyme, The truth once told (and wherefore should we lie?) Happy to catch me, just at dinner-time.
The queen of Midas slept, and so may I. Is there a parson, much bemus'd in beer,
You think this cruel ? Take it for a rule, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,
No creature smarts so little as a fool.
The creature's at his dirty work again,
Thron'd on the centre of his thin designs,
His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moor?
Still Sappho - Ā. Hold! for God's sake - you'll To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;
offend; And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. | No names – be calm -- learn prudence of a friend :
I too could write, and I am twice as tall; [all. Were others angry: I excus'd them too;
But each man's secret standard in his mind,
That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness, Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent. This, who can gratify? for who can guess ? One dedicates in high heroic prose,
The bard whom pilfer'd pastorals renown, And ridicules beyond a bundred foes;
Who turns a Persian tale for half a crown, One from all Grub-street will my fame defend, Just writes to make his barrenness appear, [year; And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. And strains from hard-bound brains, eight lines This prints my letters, that expects a bribe,
He, who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, And others roar aloud, “ Subscribe, subscribe !" Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:
There are, who to my person pay their court : And he, who, now to sense, now nonsense leaning, I cough like Horace, and, though lean, am short. Means not, but blunders round about a meaning: Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad, Such Ovid's nose, and, “ Sir! you have an eye!" It is not poetry, but prose run mad: Go on, obliging creature, make me see
All these, my modest satire bad translate, All that disgrac'd my betters, met in me.
And own'd that nine such poets made a Tate. Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed,
How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe ! “ Just so immortal Maro held his head;"
And swear, not Addison himself was safe. And when I die, be sure you let me know
Peace to all such ! but were there one whose fires Great Homer dy'd three thousand years ago. True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires;
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown Blest with each talent and each art to please, Dipp'd me in ink, my parents', or my own ? And born to write, converse, and live with ease: As yet a child, nor yet a fool to Fame,
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone, I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, I left no calling for this idle trade,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, No duty broke, no father disobey'd ;
And hate for arts that caus'd himself to rise ; The Muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife ; | Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, To help me through this long disease, my life; | And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer ; To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, And teach, the being you preserv'd, to bear. Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
But why then publish ? Granville the polite, Alike reserv'd to blame, or to commend, And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write ; | A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; Well-natur'd Garth inflam'd with early praise, Dreading ev'n fools, by Aatterers besieg'd, And Congreve lov'd, and Swift endur'd my lays ; And so obliging, that he ne'er oblig'd; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read,
Like Cato, give his little senate laws, Er'n mitred Rochester wouid nod the head, And sit attentive to his own applause; And St. John's self (great Dryden's friend before) While wits and templars every sentence raise, With open arms received one poet more.
And wonder with a foolish foce of praise Happy my studies, when by these approv'd! Who but must laugh, if such a man there be! Happier their author, when by these belov'd! | Who would not weep, if Atticus were he! From these the world will judge of men and books, What, though my name stood rubric on the walls, Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. | Or plaster'd posts, with claps, in capitals ?
Soft were my numbers: who could take offence Or smoking forth, a hundred hawkers' load, While pure description held the place of sense ? On wings of winds came flying all abroad? Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme, I sought no homage from the race that write ; A painted mistress, or a purling stream.
I kept, like Asian monarchs, from their sight : Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill ;
Poems I heeded (now berhym'd so long) I wish'd the man a dinner, and sate still.
No more than thou, great George! a birth-day song. Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret :
I ne'er with wits or witlings pass'd my days, I never answer'd, I was not in debt,
To spread about the itch of verse and praise ; lf want provok'd, or madness made them print, Nor, like a puppy, daggled through the town, I wag'd no war with Bedlam or the Mint.
To fetch and carry sing-song up and down ; Did some more sober critic come abroad; Nor at rehearsals sweat, and mouth'd, and cry'd, If wrong, I smil'd ; if right, I kiss'd the rod. With handkerchief and orange at my side! Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,
But, sick of fops, and poetry, and prate, And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense. To Bufo left the whole Castalian state. Commas and points they set exactly right,
Proud as Apollo on his forked hill,
Sate full-blown Bufo, puft”d by every quill;
And a true Pindar stood without a head)
Much they extold his pictures, much lis seat, Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms ! | And flatter'd every day, and some days eat; "The things we know are neither rich nor rare, Till, grown more frugal in his riper days, But wonder how the devil they got there.
He paid some bards with port, and some with praise ;