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And when up ten steep Nopes you've dragg’d your thighs, Just at his Study-door he'll bless your eyes.
His Study! with what Authors is it stor’d: In Books, not Authors, curious is
my To all their dated backs he turns you round; 135 These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound. Lo, some are Vellom, and the rest as good For all his Lordship knows, but they are Wood. For Locke or Milton, 'tis in vain to look, These shelves admit not any inodern book.
140 And now the Chapel's silver bell you hear, That summons you to all the Pride of Prayer : Light quirks of Music, broken and uneven. Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted Cielings you devoutly ftare,
145 Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, And bring all Paradise before your eye. To reft, the Cushion and soft Dean invite, Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.
'150 But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call; A hundred footsteps scrape the marble Hall: The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your
face. Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
155 No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb. A solemn Sacrifice perform'd in state, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread Doctor and his Wand were there. 160
Between each Act the trembling salvers ring,
Yet hence the Poor are cloath'd, the Hungry fed ;
170 The Labourer bears : What his hard Heart denies, His charitable Vanity fupplies. Another
age Thall see the golden Ear
Who then shall grace, or who improve the Soil ?
His Father's Acres who enjoys in peace,
You too proceed ! make falling Arts your care,
MOR A L ESSAY S.
EPIST L E
TO MR. ADDISON,
Occasioned by his Dialogues on MEDALS. THIS was originally written in the year 1715, when
Mr. Addison intended to publish his book of Medals; it was some time before he was Secretary of State; but not published till Mr. Tickell's Edition of his works; at which time the verses on Mr. Craggs, which conclude the poem, were added, viz. in 1720.
As the third Epistle treated of the extremes of Avarice and Profusion; and the fourth took up one particular branch of the latter, namely, the Vanity of Expence in people of wealth and quality, and was therefore a corollary to the third ; so this treats of one circumstance of that Vanity, as it appears in the common collectors of old coins: and is, therefore, a corollary to the fourth.
E E the wild Waste of all-devouring years !
How Rome her own fad fepulchre appears, With nodding arches broken temples spread ! The very Tombs now vanish'd like their dead; Imperial wonders rais'd on Nations spoil'd,
5 Where mix'd with Slaves the groaning Martyr toil'd : Huge Theatres, that now unpeopled Woods, Now drain’d a distant country of her Floods :
Fanes, which admiring Gods with pride furvey,
Ambition figh’d: she found it vain to trust The faithless Column and the crumbling Bust: Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more! Convinc'd, she now contracts her vast design, And all her Triumphs shrink into a Coin. A narrow orb each crouded conquest keeps,
25 Beneath her Palm here fad Judea weeps. Now fcantier limits the proud Arch confine, And scarce are seen the proftrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is rollid, And little Eagles wave their wings in gold. 30
The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame,
Th’inscription value, but the rust adore.