Whate'er you give, give ever at demand,
Nor let old age long ftretch his palfy'd hand;
Those who give late are importun'd each day,
And still are teiz'd because they still delay.
If e'er the miser durft his farthings fpare,
He thinly spreads them through the publick square, Where, all befide the rail, rang'd beggars lie,
And from each other catch the doleful cry;
With heav'n, for two pence, cheaply wipes his score Lifts up his eyes, and haftes to beggar more.
Where the brass knocker, wrapt in flannel band, Forbids the thunder of the footman's hand; Th'upholder, rueful harbinger of death,
Waits with impatience for the dying breath;
As vultures, o'er a camp, with hov'ring flight,
Snuff up
the future carnage of the fight.
Here canft thou pass, unmindful of a pray'r,
That heav'n in mercy may thy brother spare?
Come, F*** fincere, experienc'd friend, Thy briefs, thy deeds, and e'en thy fees fufpend; Come let us leave the Temple's filent walls,
Me bus'nefs to my diftant lodging calls:
Through the long Strand together let us stray:
With thee converfing I forget the way.
Behold that narrow street which steep defcends,
Whose building to the flimy shore extends ;
Here Arundel's fam'd structure rear'd its frame,
The ftreet alone retains the empty name:
Where Titian's glowing paint the canvas warm'd,
And Raphael's fair defign, with judgment, charm'd,
Now hangs the bell-man's fong, and pafted here
The colour'd prints of Overton appear.
Where ftatues breath'd, the work of Phidias' hands,
A wooden pump, or lonely watch houfe ftands, 490
There Effex' ftately pile adorn'd the shore,
There Cecil's, Bedford's, Villers, now no more.
Yet Burlington's fair palace still remains ;
Beauty within, without proportion reigns.
Beneath his eye declining art revives,
The wall with animated picture lives;
There Hendel ftrikes the ftrings, the melting ftrain
Transports the foul, and thrills through ev'ry vein;
There oft I enter, (but with cleaner fhoes)
For Burlington's belov'd by ev'ry Muse.
Oye affociate walkers, O my friends,
Upon your state what happiness attends!
What, though no coach to frequent vifit rolls,
Nor for your fhilling chairmen fling their poles;
Yet ftill your nerves rheumatic pains defy,
Nor lazy jaundice dulls your faffron eye;
No wafting cough difcharges founds of death,
Nor wheezing afthma heaves in vain for breath;
Nor from your restless couch is heard the grone
Of burning gout, or fedentary ftone.
Let others in the jolting coach confide,
Or in the leaky boat the Thames divide ;
Or, box'd within the chair, contemn the street,
And truft their fafety to another's feet,
Still let me walk; for oft the fudden gale
Ruffles the tide, and fhifts the dang'rous fail.
Then shall the paffenger too late déplore
The whelming billow, and the faithless oar;
The drunken chairman in the kennel spurns,
The glaffes fhatters, and his charge o'erturns.
Who can recount the coach's various harms,
The legs disjointed, and the broken arms?
I've feen a beau, in fome ill-fated hour,
When o'er the ftones chok'd kennels fwell the show'r
In gilded chariot loll, he with difdain
Views fpatter'd paffengers all drench'd in rain;
With mud fill'd high, the rumbling cart draws near,
Now rule thy prancing steeds, lac'd charioteer !
The duft-man lashes on with spiteful rage,
His pond'rous fpokes thy painted wheel engage,
Crush'd is thy pride, down falls the fhrieking beau,
The flabby pavement crystal fragments ftrow,
Black floods of mire th' embroider'd coat disgrace,
And mud enwraps the honours of his face.
So when dread Jove the fon of Phabus hurl'd,
Scarr'd with dark thunder, to the nether world;
The headstrong courfers tore the filver reins,
And the fun's beamy ruin gilds the plains.
If the pale walker pant with weak'ning ills,
His fickly hand is ftor'd with friendly bills:
From hence he learns the feventh-born doctor's fame, From hence he learns the cheapest tailor's name.
Shall the large mutton smoke upon your boards? Such, Newgate's copious market best affords.
Wouldst thou with mighty beef augment thy meal? Seek Leaden-hall, St. James's fends thee veal, 546 Thames-freet gives cheefes; Covent-Garden fruits? Moor-fields old books; and Monmouth-ftreet old fuits. Hence may'ft thou well supply the wants of life, Support thy family, and clothe thy wife.
Volumes, on fhelter'd ftalls expanded lie, And various fcience lures the learned eye;
The bending shelves with pond'rous fcholiafts groan, And deep divines to modern fhops unknown:
Here, like the bee, that on industrious wing
Collects the various odours of the spring,
Walkers, at leifure, learning's flow'rs may spoil,
Nor watch the wafting of the midnight oil,
May morals snatch from Plutarch's tatter'd
A mildew'd Bacon, or Stagyra's fage.
Here fant'ring prentices o'er Otway weep,
O'er Congreve fmile, or over D * * sleep ;
Pleas'd femftreffes the Lock's fam'd Rape unfold,
And Squirts read Garth, 'till apozems grow cold.
* The name of an Apothecary's boy, in the Poem of the Difpen fary,
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