Enough, if all around him but admire,

And now the punk applaud, and now the fryer.
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 gen'ral 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 refin'd:
A tyrant to the wife his heart approves;
A rebel to the very king he loves;

190

195

200

205

He dies, sad outcast of each church and state,
And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great.
Ask you why Wharton broke through ev'ry 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.

210

When

VER. 206. Ask you why Wharton] "This celebrated peer," says Lord Orford," like Buckingham and Rochester, comforted all the grave and dull by throwing away the brightest profusion of parts on witty fooleries, debaucheries, and scrapes, which may mix graces with a great character, but never can compose one." VER. 208. In the former editions,

Nature well known, no Miracles remain. Altered as above, for very obvious reasons.

When Cataline by rapine swell'd his store;

When Cæsar made a noble dame a whore ;

In this the last, 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 Sabin farm.
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,

215

220

Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand.

225

Consistent in our follies and our sins,
Here honest nature ends as she begins.
Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in bus'ness to the last;
As weak, as earnest; and as gravely out,
As sober Lanesb'row dancing in the gout.
Behold a rev'rend sire, whom want of grace

230

Has made the father of a nameless race,

Shov'd

VER. 213. When Casar made] This was Servilia, the sister of Cato, and the mother of Brutus.

VER. 231. Lanesb'row] 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 lispel her grief by dancing.

Shov'd 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 ev'ry sparrow that he sees.

soul!

235

240

A salmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate; The doctor call'd, declares all help too late : "Mercy!" cries Helluo, " mercy on my "Is there no hope?-Alas!-then bring the jowl." The frugal crone, 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.

245

"Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke," (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke ;) "No, let a charming chintz and Brussels lace

Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face : "One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead"And-Betty-give this cheek a little red."

251 The courtier smooth, who forty years had shin'd

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?" "I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sigh'd)

<< my lands and tenements to Ned."

256

Your

VER. 242. The frugal crone, &c.] A fact told him by Lady Bolinbroke, of an old countess at Paris.

VER. 247. Narcissa] Mrs. Oldfield the actress, who gave these orders with her dying breath. Betty was Mrs. Saunders, an actress, her friend and confidante.

Your money, Sir? "My money, Sir! what all? "Why, if I must-(then wept) I give it Paul." The manor, Sir?" The manor! hold," he cry'd, "Not that, I cannot part with that”—and dy’d. brave COBHAM! to the latest breath, Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death:

And you,

Such in those moments as in all the past;

"Oh, save my country, Heav'n !" shall be your last.

VER. 261. and dy'd.] Sir William Bateman used those very words on his death-bed, but Euclio is supposed to have been designed for Sir Charles Duncombe of Helmsley,

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 ermin'd 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 drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine,

With simp❜ring angels, palms, and harps divine;
Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it,

If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

Çome