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task to prove
Why risk the World's great empire for a Punk?
'Tis from high Life high characters are drawn; 135 A Saint in Crape is twice a Saint in Lawn; A Judge is just, a Chancellor jufter still; A Gownman, learn’d; a Bishop, what you will; Wise, if a Minister; but, if a King, More wise, more learn'd, more just, more every thing. Court-Virtues bear, like Gems, the highest rate, Born where Heaven's influence scarce can penetrate : In life's low vale, the foil the Virtues like, They please as beauties, here as wonders strike. Though the fame fun with all-diffusive
rays 145 Blush in the Rose, and in the Diamond blaze, We prize the stronger effort of his power, And justly set the Gem above the Flower..
'Tis Education forms the common mind, Just as the twig is bent, the tree 's inclin'd. Buaftful and rough, your first son is a 'Squire; The next a Tradesman, meek, and much a lyar ; Tom struts a Soldier, open, bold and brave; Will sneaks a Scrivener, an exceeding knave : Is he a Churchman? then he's fond of power : 155 A Quaker? fly: A Presbyterian ? sower : A smart Free-thinker? all things in an hour.
Ask mens Opinions : Scoto now shall tell How Trade increases, and the world goes well;
Strike off his Pension, by the setting fun,
160 And Britain, if not Europe, is undone. That
gay Free-thinker, a fine talker once, What turns him now a stupid silent dunce ? Some God, or Spirit, he has lately found; Or chanc'd to meet a Minister that frown'd.
165 Judge we by Nature ? Habit can efface, Interest o’ercome, or policy take place : By Actions ? those Uncertainty divides : By Passions ? these Diffimulation hides : Opinions ? they still take a wider range:
170 Find, if you can, in what you cannot change.
Manners with Fortunes, Humours turn with Climes, Tenets with Books, and Principles with Times.
Search then the Ruling Passion : There, alone, The Wild are constant, and the Cunning known ; 175 The Fool consistent, and the False sincere ; Priests, Princes, Women, no dissemblers here. This clue once found, unravels all the rest, The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confeft. Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days,
180 Whose ruling Passion was the Lust of Praise : Born with whate'er could win it from the Wise, Women and Fools must like him, or he dies : Though wondering Senates hung on all he spoke, The Club must hail him master of the joke. Shall parts so various aim at nothing new ? He'll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too. Then turns repentant, and his God adores With the same spirit that he drinks and whores ;
Enough if all around him but admire
190 And now the Punk applaud, and now the Frier. Thus with each gift of nature and of art, And wanting nothing but an honest heart; Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt; And most contemptible, to fhun contempt ; 195 His Passion still, to covet general praise; His Life, to forfeit it a thousand ways; A constant Bounty which no friend has made; An Angel Tongue, which no man can perfuade; A Fool, with more of Wit than half mankind, Too rash for Thought, for Action too refin'd: A Tyrant to the wife his heart approves ; A Rebel to the very king he loves ; He dies, sad outcast of each church and state, And, harder still ! flagitious, yet not great. Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule ? 'Twas all for fear the Knaves should call him Fool.
Nature well known, no prodigies remain, Comets are regular, and Wharton plain. Yet, in this search, the wiseft
That VARIATION. In the former Editions, ver. 208.
Nature well known, no Miracles remain. Altered, as above, for very obvious reasons.
That very Cæsar, born in Scipio's days,
In this one passion man can strength enjoy,
225 Consistent in our follies and our sins, Here honest Nature ends as she begins.
Old Politicians chew on wisdom past,
230 As sober Lanesborow dancing in the gout.
Behold a reverend fire, whom want of grace
235 Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees, And envies every sparrow that he sees.
A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate; The doctor callid, declares all help too late : “ Mercy! cries Helluo, mercy on my soul ! 240 “ Is there no hope ? - Alas! —then bring the jowl."
The frugal Crone, whom praying priests attend, Still strives to save the hallow'd taper's end, Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. 245
“ Odious! in wocllen! ’twould a saint provoke, (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke) “ No, let a charming Chintz, and Brussels lace, “ Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: “ One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead “ And-Betty-give this Cheek a little Red.”
The Courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd An humble servant to all human-kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, “ If-where I'm going-I could serve you, Sir !” 255
“ I give and I devise (old Euclio said, And figh’d) my
lands and tenements to Ned.” Your money, Sir ?" My money, Sir, what all ? “ Why,-if I must-(then wept) I give it Paul.” The manor, Sir?_“ The manor ! hold, he cry’d. 260 “ Not that, I cannot part with that”—and dy'd.
And you ! brave Cobham, to the latest breath, Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death : Such in those moments as in all the past, “Oh, save my Country, Heaven!” shall be your last,