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How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish Tribe,
Such was the Scorn that fill’d the Sage's Mind,
(e) Unnumber'd Suppliants crowd Preferment's Athirst for Wealth, and burning to be Great ; Delusive Fortune hears th’incesant Call, They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. On ev'ry Stage the Foes of Peace attend, Hate dogs their Flight, and Insult mocks their End. Love ends with Hope, the sinking Statesman's Door Pours in the morning Worshipper no more; For growing Names the weekly Scribbler lies, To growing Wealth the Dedicator flies, From ev'ry Room descends the painted Face, That hung the bright Palladium of the Place, And smoak'd in Kitchens, or in Auctions fold, To better Features yields the frame of Gold; For now no more we trace in ev'ry Line Heroic worth, Benevolence divine : The Form distorted justifies the Fall, And Detestation rids th’indignant Wall.
But will not Britain hear the last Appeal, Sign her Foes doom, or guard her Fav'rites Zeal ; Thro' Freedom's Sons no more Remonstrance rings, Degrading Nobles and controuling Kings; Our supple Tribes repress their Patriot Throats, And ask no Questions but the Price of Votes ; (e) Ver. 56–107.
With weekly Libels and septennial Ale,
In full-blown Dignity, see Wolfey stand,
pine, Shall Woljey's Wealth, with Wolley's End be thine? Or liv'st thou now, with safer Pride content, The wiseft Justice on the Banks of Trent? For why did Wolsey near the Steeps of Fate, On weak Foundations raise th' enormous Weight: Why but to fink beneath Misfortune's Blow, With louder Ruin to the Gulphs below?
What ) gave great Villiers to th’Affassin's Knise, And fix'd Disease on Harley's closing Life? What murder'd Wentworth, and what exil'd Hyde ? By Kings protected, and to Kings ally'd ? What but their Wish indulg'd in Courts to shine, And Pow'r too great to keep, or to resign?
When (1) Ver. 108–213.
When (g) first the College-rolls receive his Name, The young Enthusiast quits his Ease for Fame; Through all his Veins the Fever of Renown Spreads from the strong Contagion of the Gown ; O'er Bodley's Dome his future Labours spread, And * Bacon's Mansion trembles o'er his Head. Are these thy Views? proceed, illustrious Youth, And Virtue guard thee to the Thronę of Truth! Yet should thy Soul indulge the gen'rous Heat, Till captive Science yields her last Retreat ; Should Reason guide thee with her brightest Ray, And pour on misty Doubt resistless Day; Should no false Kindness lure to loose Delight, Nor Praise relax, nor Difficulty fright; Should tempting Novelty thy Ceil refrain, And Sloth effuse her opiate Fumes in vain ; Should Beauty blunt on Fops her fatal Dart, Nor claim the Triumph of a letter'd Heart; Should no Difeate thy torpid Veins invade, Nor Melancholy's Phantoms haunt thy Shade ; Yet hope not Life from Grief or Danger free, Nor think the Doom of Man revers'd for thee: Deign on the palling World to turn thine Eyes, And pause awhile from Letters, to be wise ; There mark what Ills the Scholar's Life affail, Tuil, Envy, Want, the Patron, and the Jail. See Nations slowly wife, and meanly just, To buried Merit raise the tardy Bust. If Dreams yet fiatter, once again attend, Hear Lydiat's Life, and Galileo's End.
Nor deem, when Learning her latt Prize bestows, The glitt'ring Eminence exempt from Woes ; See when the Vulgar '[cape, despis’d or aw'd, Rebellion’s vengeful Talons seize on Laud.
(8, Ver. 114-132. * There is a Tradition, that the Study of Friar Bacon, built on an Arch over the Bridge, will fall, wlxen a Man greater than l'acon thall pass under it.
From meaner Minds, tho' smaller Fines content .
The ravish'd Standard, and the captive Foe,
Pride, How just his Hopes let Swedish Charles decide ; A Frame of Adamant, a Soul of Fire, No Dangers fright him, and no Labours tire; O’er Love, o’er Fear extends his wide Domain, Unconquer'd Lord of Pleasure and of Pain ; : . No Joys to him pacific Scepters yield, War founds the Trump, he rushes to the Field ; Behold surrounding Kings their Pow'r combine, And one capitulate, and one resign; Peace courts his Hand, but spreads her Charms in vain ; • Think nothing gain’d, he cries, till Nought remain, (i) Ver. 133–146. (k) Ver. 147–167.
« On Moscow's Walls till Gothick Standards fly,
And ali be mine beneath the polar Sky.'
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's Day:
(1) Ver. 168–187.