Enough if all around him but admire,

And now the punk applaud, and now the friar.
Thus with each gift of nature and of art,
And wanting nothing but an honest heart;
Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt;
And most contemptible, to shun contempt;
His passion still to covet general praise,
His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;
A constant bounty which no friend has made;
An angel tongue, which no man can persuade;
A fool, with more of wit than half mankind,
Too rash for thought, for action too refined;
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves ;
A rebel to the very king he loves ;

He dies, sad outcast of each church and state,
And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great.

Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule?
Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool.
Nature well known, no prodigies remain,
Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.
Yet, in this search, the wisest may mistake,
If second qualities for first they take.
When Catiline by rapine swell'd his store;
When Cæsar made a noble dame a whore ;1
In this the lust, in that the avarice
Were means, not ends; ambition was the vice.
That very Cæsar, born in Scipio's days,
Had aim'd, like him, by chastity at praise.
Lucullus, when frugality could charm,
Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm.

1 'Noble dame a whore:' the sister of Cato, and mother of Brutus.

VARIATION.

In the former editions, VER. 208-
Nature well known, no miracles remain.

190

200

210

In vain th' observer eyes the builder's toil,
But quite mistakes the scaffold for the pile.

In this one passion man can strength enjoy,
As fits give vigour, just when they destroy.
Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand.
Consistent in our follies and our sins,

Here honest Nature ends as she begins.
Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in business to the last;
As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out,
As sober Lanesborough1 dancing in the gout.
Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace
Has made the father of a nameless race,
Shoved from the wall perhaps, or rudely press'd
By his own son, that passes by unbless'd:
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
And envies every sparrow that he sees.

A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate;
The doctor call'd, declares all help too late :
'Mercy!' cries Helluo, 'mercy on my soul!
Is there no hope? Alas! then bring the jowl.'
The frugal erone, whom praying priests attend,
Still tries to save the hallow'd taper's end,
Collects her breath, as ebbing life retires,
For one puff more, and in that puff expires.

'Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke,' (Were the last words that poor Narcissa 2 spoke), 'No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face:

220

230

240

''Lanesborough:' an ancient nobleman, who continued this practice long after his legs were disabled by the gout. Upon the death of Prince George of Denmark, he demanded an audience of the Queen, to advise her to preserve her health and dispel her grief by dancing.-P.—2 Narcissa:' Mrs Oldfield, the

actress.

One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead- 250 And, Betty, give this cheek a little red.'

The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined An humble servant to all human kind,

Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, 'If-where I'm going-I could serve you, sir?'

6

'I give and I devise' (old Euclio said,

"Your

6

And sigh'd) 'my lands and tenements to Ned.' money, sir? My money, sir, what! all? Why-if I must'-(then wept)-'I give it Paul.'

The manor, sir?'-The manor! hold,' (he cried), 260

'Not that I cannot part with that'-and died.

And you, brave Cobham! to the latest breath. Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death: Such in those moments as in all the past,

'Oh, save my country, Heaven!' shall be your last.

EPISTLE II.-TO A LADY,

OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN.

NOTHING SO true as what you once let fall-
'Most women have no characters at all.'
Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair.
How many pictures of one nymph we view,
All how unlike each other, all how true!
Arcadia's Countess, here, in ermined pride,
Is there, Pastora by a fountain side.
Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,
And there, a naked Leda with a swan.
Let then the fair-one beautifully cry,
In Magdalen's loose hair and lifted eye,
Or dress'd in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,

With simp'ring angels, palms, and harps divine;

10

}

Whether the charmer sinner it or saint it,

If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

Come then, the colours and the ground prepare!
Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air;
Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it

Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.
Rufa, whose eye quick glancing o'er the park,
Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark,
Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke,
As Sappho's1 diamonds with her dirty smock;
Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task,
With Sappho fragrant at an evening mask:
So morning insects that in muck begun,
Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting sun.

How soft is Silia! fearful to offend ;

The frail one's advocate, the weak one's friend:
To her, Calista proved her conduct nice;

And good Simplicius asks of her advice.

Sudden, she storms! she raves! You tip the wink,
But spare your censure-Silia does not drink.

All eyes may see from what the change arose,
All eyes may see-a pimple on her nose.

Papillia, wedded to her amorous spark,
Sighs for the shades-How charming is a park!'
A park is purchased, but the fair he sees

All bathed in tears-Oh odious, odious trees!'
Ladies, like variegated tulips, show,

'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe ;
Fine by defect, and delicately weak,

Their happy spots the nice admirer take.
Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm'd,
Awed without virtue, without beauty charm'd;

Sappho :' Lady M. W. Montague.

Her tongue bewitch'd as oddly as her eyes,
Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise;
Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had;
Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;
Yet ne'er so sure our passion to create,
As when she touch'd the brink of all we hate.
Narcissa's 1 nature, tolerably mild,

To make a wash, would hardly stew a child;
Has e'en been proved to grant a lover's prayer,
And paid a tradesman once, to make him stare;
Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim,
And made a widow happy, for a whim.
Why then declare good-nature is her scorn,
When 'tis by that alone she can be borne ?
Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name?
A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame: .
Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs,
Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres :
Now conscience chills her, and now passion burns ;
And atheism and religion take their turns:
A very heathen in the carnal part, i

Yet still a sad, good Christian at her heart.

See Sin in state, majestically drunk ;
Proud as a peeress, prouder as a punk;
Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside,
A teeming mistress, but a barren bride'!..
What then? let blood and body bear the fault,..
Her head's untouch'd, that noble seat of thought ::
Such this day's doctrine-in another fit

She sins with poets through pure love of wit.

Narcissa: Duchess of Hamilton...

VARIATIONS.

VER. 77 in the MS.

In whose mad brain the mix'd ideas roll

Of Tall-boy's breeches, and of Cæsar's soul....

47:

60%

70