His wealth brave Timon gloriously confounds;
Ask'd for a groat, he gives a hundred pounds:
Or if three ladies like a luckless play,

Takes the whole house upon the poet's day.
Now, in such exigencies not to need,
Upon my word you must be rich indeed:
A noble superfluity it craves,

Not for yourself, but for your fools and knaves;
Something which for your honour they may cheat,
And which it much becomes you to forget.

If wealth alone then make and keep us blest,
Still, still be getting, never, never rest.

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But if to power and place your passion lie, If in the pomp of life consists the joy, Then hire a slave, or (if you will) a lord, To do the honours, and to give the word; Tell at your levee, as the crowds approach, To whom to nod, whom take into your coach, Whom honour with your hand; to make remarks, Who rules in Cornwall, or who rules in Berks: "This may be troublesome, is near the chair; That makes three members, this can chuse a may'r." Instructed thus, you bow, embrace, protest, Adopt him son, or cousin at the least, Then turn about, and laugh at your own jest. Or if your life be one continued treat, If to live well means nothing but to eat; Up, up! cries Gluttony, 'tis break of day, Go drive the deer, and drag the finny prey; With hounds and horns go hunt an appetiteSo Russel did, but could not eat at night; Call'd happy dog the beggar at his door, And envied thirst and hunger to the poor. Or shall we every decency confound,

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Through taverns, stews, and bagnios take our round?
Go dine with Chartres, in each vice outdo
K**I's lewd cargo, or Ty**y's crew,

From Latian Syrens, French Circaan feasts,

Return'd well travell'd, and transform'd to beasts;

Or for a titled punk or foreign flame

Renounce our country, and degrade our name? 125
If, after all, we must with Wilmot * own
The cordial drop of life is love alone,
And Swift cry wisely, "Vive la bagatelle !”
The man that loves and laughs must sure do well.
Adieu-if this advice appear the worst,
Ev'n take the counsel which I gave you first;
Or better precepts if you can impart;
Why do; I'll follow them with all my heart.

BOOK I. EPISTLE VII.

IN THE MANNER OF DR. SWIFT.

'Tis true, my lord, I gave my word
I would be with you June the third;
Chang'd it to August, and (in short)
Have kept it as you do at court.
You humour me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetic?
In town what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in every street,
And funerals blackening all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores :
And what a dust in every place?
And a thin court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W* and H** both in town!

The dog-days are no more the case.'

'Tis true, but winter comes apace:
Then southward let your bard retire,
Hold out some months 'twixt sun and fire,
And you shall see the first warm weather
Me and the butterflies together.

My lord, your favours well I know;
'Tis with distinction you bestow,
And not to every one that comes,
Just as a Scotsman does his plums.

* Earl of Rochester.

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Pray take them sir-enough's a feast:
Eat some, and pocket up the rest'—
What, rob your boys? those pretty rogues!
No, sir, you'll leave them to the hogs.'
Thus fools with compliments besiege yc,
Contriving never to oblige ye.
Scatter your favours on a fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;

And 'tis but just, I'll tell you wherefore,
You give the things you never care for.
A wise man always is or shou'd
Be mighty ready to do good:
But makes a difference in his thought
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll say, you'll find in mc
A safe companion, and a free;
But if you'd have me always near→
A word, pray, in your honour's ear:
I hope it is your resolution

To give me back my constitution,
The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th' engaging smile, the gaiety

That laugh'd down many a summer sun,
And kept you up so oft till one;

And all that voluntary vein,

As when Belinda rais'd

my

strain.

A weasel once made shift to slink
In at a corn-loft through a chink,
But having amply stuff'd his skin,
Could not get out as he got in;
Which one belonging to the house
('Twas not a man, it was a mouse)
Observing, cried, 'You 'scape not so:
Lean as you came, sir, you must go.'

Sir, you may spare your application,
I'm no such beast, nor his relation,
Nor one that temperance advance,
Cramm'd to the throat with ortolans;
Extremely ready to resign

All that may make me none of mine.

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South-sea subscriptions take who please,
Leave me but liberty and ease.
'Twas what I said to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my modesty, and sinil'd.
'Give me,' I cried, ‘(enough for me,)
My bread and independency!'
So bought an annual rent or two.
And liv'd-just as you see I do;
Near fifty, and without a wife,
I trust that sinking fund my life.
Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well,
Shrink back to my paternal cell.
A little house with trees a-row,
And, like its master, very low;
There died my father, no man's debtor,
And there I'll die, nor worse nor better.
To set this matter full before ye,
Our old friend Swift will tell his story.
Harley, the nation's great support-'
But you may read it, I stop short,

BOOK II. EPISTLE I.

ADVERTISEMENT.

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The reflections of Horace, and the judgments passed in his epistle to Augustus, seemed so seasonable to the present times, that I could not help applying them to the use of my own country. The author thought them considerable enough to address them to his prince, whom he paints with all the great and good qua lities of a monarch upon whom the Romans depended for the increase of an absolute empire: but to make the poem entirely English, I was willing to add one or two of those which contribute to the happiness of a free people, and are more consistent with the welfare of our neighbours.

This epistle will shew the learned world to have fallen into two mistakes: one, that Augustus was a patron of poets in general; whereas he not only prohibited all but the best writers to name him, but recommended that care even to the civil magistrate; Admonebat prætores, ne paterentur nomen suum obsolefieri, &c. the other, that this piece was only a general discourse of poetry; whereas it was an apology for the poets, in order to render Augustus more their patron. Horace here pleads the cause of his contemporaries; first, against the taste of the town, whose humour it was to magnify the authors of the preceding age; secondly, against the court and nobility, who encouraged only the

writers for the theatre; and lastly, against the emperor himself, who had conceived them of little use to the government. He shews (by a view of the progress of learning, and the change of taste among the Romans) that the introduction of the polite arts of Greece had given the writers of his time great advantages over their predecessors; that their morals were much improved, and the licence of those ancient poets restrained; that satire and comedy were become more just and useful; that whatever extravagances were left on the stage were owing to the ill taste of the nobility; that poets, under due regulations, were in many respects useful to the state; and concludes, that it was upon them the emperor himself must depend for his fame with posterity. We may further learn from this epistle, that Horace made his court to this great prince, by writing with a decent freedom toward him, with a just contempt of his low flatterers, and with a manly regard to his own character. P.

TO AUGUSTUS.

WHILE you, great patron of mankind! sustain
The balanc'd world, and open all the main;
Your country, chief in arms, abroad defend,
At home with morals, arts, and laws amend;
How shall the Muse, from such a monarch steal
An hour, and not defraud the public weal?

Edward and Henry, now the boast of fame,
And virtuous Alfred, a more sacred name,
After a life of generous toils endur'd,
The Gaul subdued, or property secur'd,
Ambition humbled, mighty cities storm'd,
Or laws establish'd, and the world reform'd,
Clos'd their long glories with a sigh, to find
Th' unwilling gratitude of base mankind!
All human virtue, to its latest breath,
Finds envy never conquer'd but by death.
The great Alcides, every labour past,
Had still this monster to subdue at last:
Sure fate of all, beneath whose rising ray
Each star of meaner merit fades away!
Oppress'd we feel the beam directly beat;
Those suns of glory please not till they set.

To thee the world its present homage pays,
The harvest early, but mature the praise:
Great friend of liberty! in kings a name
Above all Greek, above all Roman fame;

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