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Shall burning Ætna, if a sage requires, Forget to thunder, and recal her fires ? On air or sea new motions be imprest,

125 Oh, blameless Bethel ! to relieve thy breast ? When the loose mountain trembles from on high, Shall gravitation cease, if you go by ? Or some old temple, nodding to its fall, For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall ? 130

But still this world (so fitted for the knave) Contents us not. A better shall we have s A kingdom of the just then let it be : But first consider how those just agree. The good must merit God's peculiar care ; 135 But who, but God, can tell us who they are ? One thinks on Calvin Heav'n's own spirit fell ; Another deems him instrument of heil; If Calvin feel Heav'n's blessing, or its rod, This cries there is, and that, there is no God. 140 What shocks one part will edify the rest, Nor with one system can they all be blest, The very best will variously incline, And what rewards your virtue, punish mine. • Whatever is, is right.'—This world, 'tis true, 145 Was made for Cæsar-but for Titus too : And which more blest? who chain'd his country,

say, Or he whose virtue sigh'd to lose a day?

But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed.' What then : is the reward of virtue bread ? 150 That vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil ; The knave deserves it, when he tills the soil; The kpave deserves it, when be tempts the main, Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain. The good man may be weak, be indolent ; Nor is his claim to plenty, but content. But grant him riches, your demand is o'er ? No-shall the good want health, the good want

pow'r ??

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Add health, and pow'r, and ev'ry earthly thing ;
• Why bounded pow'r: why private : why no king ??
Nay, why external for internal giv’n ?
Why is not man a God, and earth a Heav'ns
Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive
God gives enough, while he has more to give :
Immense the pow'r, immense were the demand ; 165
Say, at what part of nature will they stand ?

What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy,
The soul's calm sun-shine, and the heart-felt joy,
Is virtue's prize : a better would you fix ?
Then give humility a coach and six ;

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Justice a conqʼror's sword, or truth a gown,
Or public spirit its great cure, a crown.
Weak, foolish man! will Heav'n reward us there
With the same trash mad mortals wish for here?
The boy and man an individual makes,

175
Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes :
Go, like the Indian, in another life
Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife :
As well as dream such trifles are assign'd,
As toys and empires, for a god-like mind ; 180
Rewards, that either would to virtue bring
No joy, or be destructive of the thing :
How oft by these at sixty are undone
The virtues of a saint at twenty-one !

To whom can riches give repute or trust, 185 Content or pleasure, but the good and just ? Judges and senates have been bought for gold, Esteem and love were never to be sold. Oh fool! to think God hates the worthy mind, The lover and the love of human-kind,

190 Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear, Because he wants a thousand pounds a year. Honour and shame from no condition rise ; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. Fortune in men hath some small diff'rence made, 195 One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade,

205

The cobler apron'd, and the parson gown'd,
The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd.
• What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl ?'
I'll tell you, friend : a wise man and a fool. 200
You'll find, if ouce the monarch acts the monk,
Or, cobler-like, the parson will be drunk,
Worth makes the man, and want of it, the fellow ;
The rest is all but leather or prunello,
Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with

strings,
That thou may'st be by kings, or whores of kings,
Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race,
In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece.;
But by your father's worth if yours you rate,
Count me those only who were good and great. 210
Go, if your ancient, but ignoble, blood
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood,
Gol and pretend your family is young ;
Nor own your fathers have been fools so long.
What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards. 215
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.

Look next on greatness.; say where greatness lies? « Where, but among the heroes and the wise ?' Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed, From Macedonia's madman to the Swede ; 220 The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find, Or make, an enemy of all mankind ! Not one looks backward, .onward still he goes, Yet ne'er looks forward farther than his nose. No less alike the politic and wise,

225 All sly slow things, with circumspective eyes : Men in their loose unguarded hours they take, Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat ; 'Tis phrase absurd, to call a villain great : 230 Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.

Who poble ends by noble means obtains,
Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains,
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed 235
Like Socrates, that man is great indeed.

What's fame : a fancy'd life in other's breath,
A thing beyond us, ev'n before our death.
Just what you hear, you have ; and what's unknown
The same (my Lord) if Tully's, or your own. 240
All that we feel of it begins and ends
In the small circle of our foes or friends ;
To all beside as much an empty shade,
An Eugene living, as a Cæsar dead ;
Alike, or when, or where, they shone, or shine, 245
Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine.
A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod ;
An honest man's the noblest work of God.
Fame but from death a villain's name can save,
As justice tears his body from the grave ;

250 When what t'oblivion better were resign'd, Is hung on high, to poison half mankind. All fame is foreign, but of true desert ; Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart : One self-approving hour whole years out-weighs 255 Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas : And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels, Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.

la parts superior what advantage lies ? Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise ?

260 'Tis but to know how little can be known ; To see all other's faults, and feel our own : Condemn'd in bus'ness, or in arts to drudge, Without a second, or without a judge. Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land ? 265 All fear, none aid you, and few understand. Painful pre-eminence ! yourself to view Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.

Bring then these blessings to a strict account ; Make fair deductions, see to what they ’mount, 270

285

scorn them on

How much of other each is sure to cost ;
How cach for other oft is wholly lost ;
How inconsistent greater goods with these ;
How sometimes life is risk'd, and always ease :
Tbink, and if still the things thy envy call, 275
Say, wouldst thou be the man to whom they fall?
To sigh for ribbands if thou art so silly,
Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy.
Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life?
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife, 280
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon' shin'd,
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind :
Or ravish'd with the whistling of a name,
See Cromwell, damn'd to everlasting fame !
If all, united, thy ambition call,
From ancient story learn to scorn them all.
There in the rich, the honour'd, fam'd, and great,
See the false scale of happiness complete !
In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay,
How happy those to ruin, these betray! 290
Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows,
From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose;
In each how guilt and greatness equal ran,
And all that rais'd the hero, sunk the man.
Now. Europe's laurels on their brows behold, 295
But stain'd with blood, or ill exchang'd for gold':
Then see them broke with toils, or sunk in ease,
Or infamous for plunder'd provinces.
Oh wealth ill fated ! which no act of fame .
E’er taught to shine, or sanctify'd from shame ! 300
What greater bliss attends their close of life?
Some greedy minion, or imperious wife,
The trophy'd arches, story'd halls invade,
And baunt their slumbers in the pompous shade.
Alas ! not dazzled with their noon-tide ray, 305
Compute the morn and ev'ning to the day ;
The whole amount of that enormous fame,
A tale, that blends their glory with their shame!

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