Not fo his fon: he mark'd this overfight,
And then miftook reverfe of wrong for right. (For what to fhun will no great knowledge need, But what to follow, is a task indeed!)
Yet fure, of qualities deferving praise, More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise.
What flaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the capacious fquire, and deep divine! Yet no mean motives this profufion draws; His oxen perish in his country's caufe;
'Tis George and Liberty that crowns the cup, And zeal for that great house which eats him up. The woods recede around the naked feat, The Sylvans groan-no matter-for the fleet: Next goes his wool-to clothe our valiant bands; Laft, for his country's love, he fells his lands. To town he comes, compleats 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 caufe, His thankless country leaves him to her laws.
The fenfe to value riches, with the art T'enjoy them, and the virtue to impart, Not meanly, nor ambitiously purfu'd, Not funk by floth, nor rais'd by servitude; To balance fortune by a juft expence, Join with œconomy, magnificence; With fplendor charity, with plenty health;
Oh, teach us, Bathurft! yet unspoil'd by wealth!
That fecret rare, between th' extremes to move,
Of mad good-nature, and of mean felf-love.
B. To worth or want well-weigh'd, be bounty given, And ease or emulate, the care of Heav'n;
(Whose measure full o'erflows on human race) Mend Fortune's fault, and juftify her grace.
Wealth in the grofs is death, but life diffus'd; As poifon heal's, in just proportion us'd: In heaps, like ambergris, a ftink it lies; But well difpers'd, is incenfe to the skies.
P. Who ftarves by nobles, or with nobles eats? The wretch that trufts them, and the rogue that cheats. Is there a lord, who knows a chearful noon Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon? Whose table, wit, or modest merit, share, Un-elbow'd by a gamefter, pimp, or player? Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part, To ease th' opprefs'd, and raise the finking heart; Where'er he shines, Oh, Fortune! gild the scene, And angels 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 engrofs? Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing the Man of Ross: Pleas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarfe applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tofs'd, Or in proud falls magnificently loft;
But clear and artlefs, pouring thro' the plain Health to the fick, and folace to the swain ? Whose caufeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whofe feats the weary traveller repose?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rife? • The Man of Rofs,' each lifping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! The Man of Rofs divides the weekly bread: He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of ftate, Where Age and Want fit fmiling at the gate; Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bless'd; The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick-the Man of Rofs relieves,
Prefcribes, attends; the medicine makes, and gives. Is there a variance-enter but his door,
Baulk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more. Defpairing quacks with curfes fled the place, And vile attornies, now an useless race.
B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue What all fo wish, but want the power to do! Oh! fay what fums that generous hand supply? What mines to fwell that boundless charity?
P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man poffefs'd-five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blufh! proud courts, withdraw your blaze! Ye little ftars, hide your diminish'd rays!
B. And what? no monument, infcription, stone? His race, his form, his name, almost unknown?
P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his name. Go, fearch it there! where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the hiftory; Enough that virtue fill'd the fpace between; Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been. When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch, who, living, fav'd a candle's end: Shouldering God's altar a vile image ftands, Belyes his features, nay, extends his hands; That live-long wig, which Gorgon's felf might own, Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.
Behold what bleffings wealth to life can lend !
And fee what comfort it affords our end!
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, The floors of plaifter, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with ftraw, With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow ftrove with dirty red,
Great Villers lies-alas! how chang'd from him, That life of pleafure, and that foul of whim! Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love; Or just as gay at council, in a ring
Of mimick'd ftatefmen and their merry king. No wit to flatter, left of all his store!
No fool to laugh at, which he valu'd more; There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of ufelefs thousands ends. His grace's fate fage Cutler could forefee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, Live like me!'
As well his grace replied, Like you, Sir John?
That I can do, when all I have is gone." Refolve me, Reason, which of thefe are worfe, Want with a full or with an empty purse? Thy life more wretched, Cutler! was confefs'd; Arife and tell me, was thy death more bless'd? Cutler faw tenants break, and houfes fall, For very want; he could not build a wall. His only daughter in a stranger's power, For very want; he could not pay a dower. A few gray hairs his reverend temples crown'd, 'Twas very want that fold them for two pound. What! even deny'd a cordial at his end, Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend? What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Yet numbers feel the want of what he had! Cutler and Brutus dying, both exclaim,
Virtue and wealth! what are ye but a name?” Say, for fuch worth are other worlds prepar'd?
Or are they both in this their own reward? A knotty point! to which we now proceed. But you are tir'd-I'll tell a tale-B. Agreed! P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lyes,
There dwelt a citizen of fober fame,
A plain good man, and Balaam was his name: Religious, punctual, frugal, and fo forth;
His word would pass for more than he was worth. ́ ́ One folid difh his week-day meal affords,
An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's: Conftant at church and Change, his gains were fure; His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.
The devil was pique'd fuch faintship to behold, And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old: But Satan now is wifer than of yore,
And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Rouz'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds fweep The furge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks blefs the lucky fhore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks; · He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes. • Live like yourself!' was foon my lady's word; And, lo! two puddings fmoak'd upon the board. Afleep and naked as an Indian lay,
An honeft factor ftole a gem away:
He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some fcruple rofe, but thus he eas'd his thought: I'll now give fixpence where I gave a groat; • Where once I went to church I'll now go twice; And am fo clear, too, of all other vice!'
The tempter faw his time, the work he ply'd: Stocks and fubfcriptions pour on ev'ry fide; Till all the dæmon makes his full defcent In one abundant fhower of cent. per cent. Sinks deep within him, and poffeffes whole, Then dubs Director, and fecures his foul.
Behold Sir Balaam now a man of spirit, Afcribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
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