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E P I S T L E IV.

THE extremes of Avarice and Profufion being treated

of in the foregoing Epistle; this takes up one partiçular branch of the latter, the Vanity of Expence in people of wealth and quality; and is therefore a corollary to the preceding, just as the epistle on the Characters of Women is to that of the Knowledge and Characters of Men. It is equally remarkable for exaciness of method with the rest. But the nature of the subject, which is less philofophical, makes it capable

of being analyzed in a much narrower compass. 'Tis frange, the Mifer should his Cares employ

To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy :
Is it less strange, the Prodigal should waste
His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste?
Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats;

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Artists must chuse his Pictures, Music, Meats :
He buys for Topham Drawings and Designs;
For Pembroke Statues, dirty Gods, and Coins;
Rare monkish Manuscripts for Hearne alone,
And Books for Mead, and Butterflies for Sloane.
Think we all these are for himself ? no more
Than his fine Wife, alas ! or finer Whore.

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted ? Only to shew, how many tastes he wanted. What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste ? 15 Some Dæmon whisper'd, “ Visto! have a Taste."

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Heaven visits with a Taste the wealthy Fool,
And needs no Rod but Ripley with a Rule.
See ! sportive Fate, to punish aukward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a Guide :
A standing sermon, at each year's expence,
That never Coxcomb reach'd magnificence!

You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse,
And pompous buildings once were things of Use.
Yet shall (my Lord) your just, your noble rules
Fill half the land with imitating Fools ;
Who random drawings from your sheets shall take,
And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load fome vain Church with old Theatric state,
Turn Arts of triumph to a Garden-gate;
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all
On some patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall ;
Then clap four slices of Pilaster on’t,
That, lac'd with bits of rustic, makes a Front.
Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, 35
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door ;
Conscious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they starve, they starve by rules of art.

Oft have you hinted to your brother Peer, A certain truth, which many buy too dear :

Some

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VARIATION. After ver. 22. in the MS.

Must Bishops, Lawyers, Statesmen, have the skill To build, to plant, judge paintings, what you will ? Then why not Kent as well our treaties draw, Bridgman explain the Gospel, Gibbs the Law ?

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Something there is more needful than Expence,
And something previous ev'n to Taste-'tis Sense:
Good Sense, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And, though no Science, fairly worth the seven :
A Light, which in yourself you must perceive ; 45
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the Column, or the arch to bend,
To swell the Terras, or to sink the Grot;
In all, let Nature never be forgot.
But treat the Goddess like a modeft fair,
Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty every where be spy'd,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, 33
Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds.

Consult the Genius of the Place in all;
That tells the Waters or to rise, or fall;
Or helps th'ambitious Hill the heavens to scale,
Or scoops in circling theatres the Vale;

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Calls-in the country, catches opening glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades;
Now breaks, or now directs th' intending Lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.
Still follow Sense, of every

Art the Soul,
Parts answering parts shall fide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from Difficulty, ftrike from Chance;
Nature shall join you; Time shall make it grow
A Work to wonder at-perhaps a Srow.

70 Without

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Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls: And Nero's Terraces defert their walls : The vast Parterres a thousand hands shall make, Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a Lake : Or cut wide views through mountains to the Plain, 75 You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again. Evin in an ornament its place remark, Nor in an Hermitage set Dr. Clarke. Behold Villario's ten years toil complete ; His Quincunx darkens, his Espaliers meet; 8 The wood supports the Plain, the parts unite, And strength of Shade contends with strength of Light; A waving Glow the bloomy beds display, Blushing in bright diversities of day, With silver-quivering rills mæander'd o'er 85 Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more ; Tird of the scene Parterres and Fountains yield. He finds at last he better likes a Field.

Through his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus stray'd, Or fate delighted in the thickening fhade,

90 With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Or see the stretching branches long to meet! His Son's fine Taste an opener Vista loves, Foe to the Dryads of his Father's groves ; One boundless Green, or flourish'd Carpet views, 95 With all the mournful family of Yews : The thriving piants ignoble broomsticks made, Now sweep those Alleys they were born to fhade.

At Timon's Villa let us pass a day, Where all cry out, “ What sums are thrown away!"

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So proud, fo grand; of that ftupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught
As brings all Brobdingnag before your thought.
To compass this, his Building is a Town,

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His pond an Ocean, his parterre a Down :
Who but must laugh, the Master when he fees,
A puny insect, shivering at a breeze !
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around !
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground,
Two Cupids squirt before: a Lake behind
Improves the keenness of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On every side you look, behold the Wall !
No pleasing Intricacies intervene,

I15 No artful Wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other. The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees; With herę a Fountain, never to be play'd; And there a Summer-house that knows no shade; Here Amphitrite fails through myrtle bowers ; There Gladiators fight, or die in flowers ; Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn, 125 And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty Urn.

My Lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen :

y regular approach-not yet
Re length of yon họt Terrace sweat; 130

And

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But

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