I fond of my well-chofen feat,

My pictures, medals, books complete.

Or, should we mix our friendly talk,
O'ershaded in that favourite walk,

Which thy own hand had whilom planted,

550

Both pleas'd with all we thought we wanted:

Yet then, ev'n then, one cross reflection

Would spoil thy grove, and my collection:
Thy fon, and his, ere that, may die,
And Time fome uncouth heir fupply,
Who fhall for nothing else be known
But fpoiling all that thou haft done.
Who fet the twigs fhall he remember
That is in hafte to fell the timber?
And what shall of thy woods remain,
Except the box that threw the main ?
Nay, may not Time and Death remove

555

560

The near relations whom I love?

And my coz Tom, or his coz Mary,

(Who hold the plough, or skim the dairy)

565

My favourite books and pictures fell

To Smart, or Doiley, by the ell?

Kindly throw in a little figure,

And fet the price upon the bigger?

Those who could never read the grammar,

When my dear volumes touch the hammer,
May think books beft, as richest bound;
My copper medals by the pound
May be with learned juftice weigh'd;
To turn the balance, Otho's head

0 2

570

575 May

May be thrown in; and, for the metal,

The coin may mend a tinker's kettle—

Tir'd with these thoughts-Lefs tir'd than I,
Quoth Dick, with your philosophy—
That people live and die, I knew
An hour ago, as well as you.
And, if Fate fpins us longer years,
Or is in hafte to take the fhears,
I know we must both fortunes try,
And bear our evils wet or dry.
Yet, let the Goddess fmile or frown,
Bread we fhall eat, or white or brown;

580

585

And must we spectacles apply,

To view what hurts our naked eye?
Sir, if it be your wifdom's aim

To make me merrier than I am,

595

I'll be all night at your devotion

Come on, friend; broach the pleafing notion:

But, if you would deprefs my thought,

Your fyftem is not worth a groat

For Plato's fancies what care I?
I hope you would not have me die,
Like fimple Cato in the play,
For any thing that he can fay?
E'en let him of ideas speak

To heathens in his native Greek,

600

605

༔=

If to be fad is to be wife,

I do most heartily despise
Whatever Socrates has faid,

Or Tully writ, or Wanley read.

*

Dear Drift, to fet our matters right,
Remove thefe papers from my fight;
Burn Mat's Des-cart, and Ariftotle :
Here! Jonathan, your master's bottle.

610

* Mr. Prior's Secretary and Executor.

03

SOLOMON

Ο Βίος γὰρ ὄνομ ̓ ἔχει, πόνος δ ̓ ἔργῳ πέλεια

EUREP

Siquis Deus mihi largiatur, ut ex hac ætate repu erafcam, & in cunis vagiam, valde recufem."

66

Cic. de Senect

"The bewailing of man's miferies hath been elegantly and "copioufly fet forth by many in the writings as well "of Philofophers as Divines; and is both a pleasant and a profitable contemplation."

BACON