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P. Who, at this rate of talking, can be free?
S. The brave, wife, honeft man, and only he :
All elfe are flaves alike, the world around,
Kings on the throne, and beggars on the ground:
He, fir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf,
And (greater ftill) is master of himself :

Not to-and-fro by fears and factions hurl'd,
But loose to all the interefts of the world:
And while that world turns round, entire and whole,
He keeps the facred tenor of his foul;
In every turn of fortune ftill the fame,
As gold unchang'd, or brighter from the flame :
Collected in himfelf, with godlike pride,
He fees the darts of envy glance afide;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempeft blow,
Smiles at the idle ftorms that roar below.
One fuch you know, a layman, to your fhame,
And yet the honour of your blood and name,
If you can fuch a character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your flave again.

But when in Hemfkirk's pictures you delight,
More than yourself, to fee two drunkards fight;
"Fool, rogue, fot, blockhead," or fuch names are mine:
Your's are," a Connoiffeur," or " Deep Divine."

I'm chid for loving a luxurious bit,

The facred prize of learning, worth, and wit:
And yet fome fell their lands thefe bits to buy;
Then, pray, who fuffers most from luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no plate,
I feal no bonds, I mortgage no estate. ́

Befides,

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Befides, high living, fir, muft wear you out
With furfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout.
By fome new pleasures are you ftill engross'd,
And when you fave an hour, you think it loft.
To sports, plays, races, from your books you run,
And like all company, except your own.

You hunt, drink, sleep, or (idler ftill) you rhyme;
Why?-but to banish thought, and murder time:
And yet that thought, which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.

P. Tom, fetch a cane, a whip, a club, a stone,--S. For what?

P. A fword, a pistol, or a gun:

I'll fhoot the dog.

S. Lord! who would be a wit?

He's in a mad, or in a rhyming fit.

P. Fly, fly, you rafcal, for your fpade and fork; For once I'll fet your lazy bones to work: Fly, or I'll fend you back, without a groat, To the bleak mountains where you firft were caught.

ODE TO JOHN PITT, Esq.

Advising him to build a banquetting-house on a hill that overlooks the fea.

FROM this tall promontory's brow

You look majestic down,

And fee extended wide below

Th' horizon all your own.

With growing piles the vales are crown'd,

Here hills peep over hills;

There the vast sky and sea profound
Th' increafing profpect fills.

O bid, my friend, a structure rife,
And this huge round command;
Then fhall this little point comprise
The ocean and the land.

Then you, like Æolus, on high,
From your aerial tower,
Shall fee fecure the billows fly,

And hear the whirlwinds roar.

You, with a fmile, their rage despise,
Till fome fad wreck appears,
And calls, from your relenting eyes,
The fympathizing tears.

Thus may you view, with proud delight,
While winds the deep deform,
(Till human woes your grief excite)

All nature in a storm.

Majeftic, awful scene! when, hurl'd

On furges, furges rife,

And all the heaving watery world
Tumultuous mounts the skies.

The feas and thunder roar by turns,
By turns the peals expire;
The billows flash, and æther burns
With momentary fire..

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But

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Has ftill'd the murmuring tides.

Spread wide abroad, the glaffy plain,,

In various colours gay,

Reflects the glorious fun again,
And doubly gilds the day.

Th' horizon glows from fide to fide,
And flames with glancing rays;
The floating, trembling, filver tide,
Is one continual blaze.

Your eyes the profpect now command,
All uncontrol'd and free,

Fly like a thought from land to land,
And dart from fea to fea.

Thus, while above the clouds we fit,
And innocently gay,

Pafs in amusements, wine, or wit,

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Sometimes, with pity, or difdain,.
In thought a glance we throw

Down on the poor, the proud, the vain,,

In yonder world below.

We fee, from this exalted feat,

(How fhrunk, reduc'd, confin'd!) The little perfon of the great,

As little as his mind.

See

See there-amidft the crowds our view
Some scatter'd virtues ftrike;

But thofe fo throng'd, and these so few,
The world looks all alike.

Ο

Yet, through this cloud of human kind,
The Talbots we furvey,

The Pitts, the Yorks, the Seckers find,
Who fhine in open day.

ODE TO JOHN PITT, Esq.

On the fame fubject.

'ER curious models as you rove

The vales with piles to crown,

And great Palladio's plans improve
With nobler of your own;

O bid a ftructure o'er the floods
From this high mountain rise,
Where we may fit enthron'd like gods,
And revel in the skies.

Th' afcending breeze, at each repaft,
Shall breathe an air divine,

Give a new brightness to the taste,
New fpirit to the wine.

Or these low pleasures we may quit

For banquets more refin'd,
The works of each immortal wit,

The luxury of the mind.

Plato,

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