P. Who builds a church to God, and not to

fame,

Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, search it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough that virtue fill'd the space between,
Prov'd by the ends of being to have been.
When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend
The wretch who living sav'd a candle's end:
Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands,
Belies his features, nay, extends his hands;
That livelong wig, which Gorgon's self might

own,

Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.

Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend! And see what comfort it affords our end.

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat halfhung,

The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villiers lies-alas! how chang'd from him,
That life of pleasure and that soul of whim!

5 See note 6 p. 120.

6 The talented and dissolute George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who, having squandered his immense wealth, died at the house of one of his tenants in Yorkshire, in the misery here described.

Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury' and love;
Or just as gay at council, in a ring

Of mimic statesmen and their merry king.
No wit to flatter, left of all his store-
No fool to laugh at, which he valued more—
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends!
His Grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, "Live like me."
And well his Grace replied, "Like you, Sir John?
That I can do when all I have is gone!"

Resolve me, reason, which of these is worse,
Want with a full or with an empty purse ?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler! was confess'd;
Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd?
Cutler saw tenants break and houses fall,
For very want; he could not build a wall:
His only daughter in a stranger's power,
For very want; he could not pay a dower:
A few gray hairs his reverend temples crown'd;
'Twas very want that sold them for two pound.
What e'en denied a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend?
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,
Yet numbers feel,—the want of what he had!

7 The infamous Countess of Shrewsbury, whose lord the Duke of Buckingham killed in a duel on her account, and who is reported to have held the Duke's horses, disguised as a page, during the combat.

8 Sir John Cutler, notorious for his miserly habits. VOL. II.

9

Cutler and Brutus dying both exclaim,
"Virtue! and wealth! what are ye but a name !"
Say, for such worth are other worlds prepar❜d?
Or are they both in this their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tir'd—I'll tell a tale—B. Agreed.
P. Where London's column, pointing at the
skies,

Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies,
There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,

A plain good man, and Balaam was his name.
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth,

His word would pass for more than he was worth;
One solid dish his week-day meal affords,
An added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's;
Constant at church and 'Change; his gains were

sure,

His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, And long'd to tempt him like good Job of old; But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor.

Rous'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds sweep The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes. "Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word; And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board.

Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away:

He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit.

66

Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought: "I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church I'll now go twiceAnd am so clear too of all other vice."

The tempter saw his time; the work he plied; Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, Till all the demon makes his full descent In one abundant shower of cent per cent, Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, Then dubs director, and secures his soul.

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a blessing now was wit, And God's good providence a lucky hit. Things change their titles as our manners turn, His counting-house employ'd the Sunday morn: Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life), But duly sent his family and wife.

There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide My good old lady catch'd a cold and died.

A nymph of quality admires our knight; He marries, bows at court, and grows polite; Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air: First for his son a gay commission buys,

Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies:

His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife;
She bears a coronet and p―x for life.
In Britain's senate he a seat obtains,
And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains.
My lady falls to play; so bad her chance,
He must repair it; takes a bribe from France :
The house impeach him; Coningsby harangues;
The court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs.
Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown:
The devil and the king divide the prize,
And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.