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As he, who rifes when his head turns round,
Muft tumble twice as heavy to the ground.
Then love not grandeur, 'tis a splendid curse;
The more the love, the harder the divorce.
We live far happier by thefe gurgling fprings,
Than statesmen, courtiers, counsellors, or kings.
The ftag expell'd the courfer from the plain;
What can he do?he begs the aid of man;
He takes the bit and proudly bears away
His new ally, he fights and wins the day :
But, ruin'd by fuccefs, he strives in vain
To quit his master and the curb again.
So from the fear of want moft wretches fly,
But lofe their nobleft wealth, their liberty o
To their imperious paffions they fubmit,
Who mount, ride, fpur, but never draw the bit.
'Tis with your fortune, Spence, as with your fhoe, thri
A large may wrench, a fmall one wring your toe,
Then bear your fortune in the golden mean,
Not every man is born to be a dean.
I'll bear your jeers, if ever I am known
To feek two cures, when fcarce I merit one.
Riches, 'tis true, some service may afford,
But oftner play the tyrant o'er their lord.
Money I scorn, but keep a little still,
To pay my doctor's, or my lawyer's bill.
From Encombe's foft romantic scenes I write,
Deep funk in ease, in pleasure and delight; den
Yet, though her gen'rous lord himself is here, mak 1957 'Twould be one pleasure more, could you appear.
INVITATION to a FRIEND at COURT.
IF you can leave for books the crowded court,
And generous Bourdeaux for a glass of Port,
To these sweet folitudes without delay
Break from the world's impertinence away.
Soon as the fun the face of nature gilds,
For health and pleasure will we range the fields ;
O'er her gay fcenes and opening beauties run,
While all the vaft creation is our own.
But when his golden globe with faded light
Yields to the folemn empire of the night;
And in her fober majesty the moon
With milder glories mounts her filver throne;
Amidst ten thousand orbs with splendour crown'd,
That pour their tributary beams around;
Through the long level'd tube our strengthen'd fight
Shall mark diftinct the fpangles of the night;
From world to world fhall dart the boundless eye,
And stretch from star to ftar, from sky to sky.
The buzzing infect families appear,
When funs unbind the rigour of the year;
Quick glance the myriads round the evening bower,
Hofts of a day, or nations of an hour.
Aftonish'd we fhall fee th' unfolding race,
Stretch'd out in bulk, within the polish'd glass;
Through whofe fmall convex a new world we spy,
Ne'er feen before, but by a Seraph's eye!
So long in darkness fhut from human kind
Lay half God's wonders to a point confin'd!
But in one peopled drop we now furvey
In pride of power fome little monfter play;
O'er tribes invisible he reigns alone,
And ftruts a tyrant of a world his own.
Now will we ftudy Homer's awful page,
Now warm our fouls with Pindar's noble rage:
To English lays fhall Flaccus' lyre be ftrung,
And lofty Virgil fpeak the British tongue.
Immortal Virgil! at thy facred name
I tremble now, and now I pant for fame;
With eager hopes this moment I afpire
To catch or emulate thy glorious fire;
The next pursue the rash attempt no more,
But drop the quill, bow, wonder, and adore;
By thy ftrong genius overcome and aw'd!
That fire from heaven! that spirit of a God!
Pleas'd and transported with thy name I tend
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend;
And from my first design by rapture led,
Neglect the living poet for the dead.
EPISTLE to Mr. SPENCE,
When Tutor to Lord MIDDLESEX.
In Imitation of HORACE, Book I. Epift. XVIII.
SPENCE, with a friend you pass the hours away
In pointed jokes, yet innocently gay
You ever differ'd from a flatterer more,
Than a chafte lady from a flaunting whore.
'Tis true you rallied every fault you found, But gently tickled, while you cur'd the wound: Unlike the paultry poets of the town,
Rogues who expofe themselves for half a crowns
And still impofe on every foul they meet
Rudeness for fense, and ribaldry for wit:
Who, though half-starv'd, in spite of time and place, Repeat their rhymes, though dinner stays for grace : And as their poverty their dreffes fit,
They think of course a floven is a wit:
But fenfe (a truth these coxcombs ne'er fufpect)
Lies juft 'twixt affectation and neglect.
One step still lower, if you can, defcend,
To the mean wretch, the great man's humble friend;
That moving shade, that pendant at his ear,
That two-legg'd dog, ftill pawing on the peer.
Studying his looks, and watching at the board,
He gapes to catch the droppings of my lord;
And, tickled to the foul at every joke,
Like a prefs'd watch, repeats what t'other spoke:
Echo to nonfenfe! fuch a scene to hear!
"Tis just like Punch and his interpreter.
On trifles fome are earneftly abfurd,
You'll think the world depends on ev'ry word.
What, is not every mortal free to speak?
I'll give my reafons, tho' I break my neck.
And what's the queftion ?—if it fhines or rains,
Whether 'tis twelve or fifteen miles to Staines.
The wretch reduc'd to rags by every vice,
Pride, projects, races, miftreffes, and dice,
The rich rogue shuns, though full as bad as he,
And knows a quarrel is good husbandry.
'Tis ftrange, cries Peter, you are out of pelf,
I'm fure I thought you wifer than myself;
Yet gives him nothing-but advice too late,
Retrench, or rather mortgage your estate,
I can advance the fum,-'tis best for both;
But henceforth cut your coat to match your cloth.
A minifter, in mere revenge and sport,
Shall give his foe a paltry place at court.
The dupe for every royal birth-day buys
New horfes, coaches, cloaths, and liveries;
Plies at the levee, and diftinguish'd there
Lives on the royal whisper for a year;
His wenches fhine in Bruffels and Brocade!
And now the wretch, ridiculously mad,
Draws on his banker, mortgages and fails,
Then to the country runs away from jails:
There ruin'd by the court he fells a vote
To the next burgefs, as of old he bought;
Rubs down the feeds which once his chariot bore,
Or fweeps the town, which once he ferv'd before.