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Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys ?
120 Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum ? Alas! they think a man will cost a plum.
Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold,
The crown of Poland, venal twice an age,
130 Congenial souls ; whose life one avarice joins, And one fate buries in the Asturian mines.
Much-injured Blunt! why bears he Britain's hate ? A wizard told him in these words our fate :
* At length corruption, like a general food (So long by watchful ministers withstood,) Shall deluge all; and avarice creeping on, Spread like a low-born mist, and blot the sun ; Statesman and patriot ply alike the stocks, Peeress and butler share alike the box,
. All this is madness,' cries a sober sage :
For though such motives folly you may call,
Hear then the truth: 'Tis Heaven each passion sends
Riches, like insects, when conceald they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. 170 Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst bis store, Soes but a backward steward for the poor; This year a reservoir to keep and spare, The next a fountain, spouting through his heit, In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst, And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
Old Cotta shamed his fortune and his birth, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth: What though, (the use of barbarous spits forgot,) His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot ? 180 His court with nettles, moats with cresses stored, With soups unbought and salaus bless'd his board ? If Cotta lived on puise, it was no more Than Bramins, saints, and sages did before: To cram the rich was prodigal expense, And who would take the poor from Providence ? Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old hall, Silence without, and fasts within the wall; No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabour sound, No noontide bell invites the country round: Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey, And turn their unwilling steeds another way: Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er, Curse the saved candle and unopening door ;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Not so his son : he mark'd this oversight,
200 Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise, More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise. What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the capacious 'squire, and deep divine ! Yet no mean motive this profusion draws, His oxen perish in his country's cause; "Tis George and liberty that crowns the cup, And zeal for that great house which eats him up. The woods recede around the naked seat, The Sy'vans groan-no matter—for the feet : 210 Next goes his wool--to clothe our valiant bands : Last, for his country's love, he sellis his lands. To town he comes, completes the nation's hope, And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a pope; And shall not Britain now reward his toils, Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils ? In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his cause; llis thankless country leaves him to her laws.
The sense to value riches, with the art To enjoy them, and the virtue to impart,
220 Not meanly, nor ambitiously pursued, Not sunk by sloth, nor raised by servitude; To balance fortune bý a just expense, Join with economy, magnificence; With splendour charity, with plenty health; O teach us, Bathurst ! yet unspoil'd by wealth! That secret rare, between the extremes to move Of mad good-nature, and of mean self-love.
B. To worth or want well-weigh'd, be bounty given, And ase or emulate the care of Heaven; 230 (Whose measure full o'erflows on human race ;) Mend fortune's fault, and justify her grace.
Wealth in the gross is death, but life, diffused ;
P. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats?
240 Whose table, wit or modest merit share, Unelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or player ? Who copies yours or Oxford's better part, To ease the oppress'd and raise the sinking heart? Where'er he shines, O Fortune, gild the scene, And angels guard him in the golden mean! There, English bounty yet awhile may stand, And honour linger ere it leaves the land.
But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest muse! and sing the Man or Ross : 250 Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow Not to the skies in useless columns toss'd, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless pouring through the plain, Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? 260 Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? • The Man of Ross,' each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : He feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smiling at the gate : Him portion'd maids, apprenticed orphans bless'd, The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes and gives.
Is there a variance ? enter but his door,
B. Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possess'd-five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw your Ye little stars ! hide your diminish'd rays. (blaze!
B. And what! no monument, inscription, stone ?
P Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,