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And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd yout
thighs, Just at his study-door he'll bless your eyes.
His study! with what authors is it stor'd ? In books, not authors, curious is my Lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round; 135 These Aldus printed, those Du Suëil has bound ! Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good, For all his Lordship knows, but they are wood. For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look, These shelves admit not any modern book.
And now the chapel's silver bell you hear, That summons you to all the pride of pray’r: Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Make the soul dance upon a jig to heav'n. On painted cielings you devoutly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre. On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, And bring all paradise before your eye. To rest, the cushion and soft dean invite, Who never mentions hell to ears polite. 150
But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call ; A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall : The rich buffet well-colour'd serpents grace, And gaping tritons spew to wash your face.
Ver. 146. Verrio or Laguerre,] Verrio (Antonio) painted many cielings, &c. at Windsor, Hampton-Court, &c. and Laguerre at Blenheim-castle, and other places.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
155 No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb. A solemn sacrifice, perform'd in state, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread doctor, and his wand were there. Between each act the trembling salvers ring, 161 From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King. In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state, And complaisantly help'd to all I hate, Treated, caress’d, and tir'd, I take my leave, 165 Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; I curse such lavish cost, and little skill, And swear no day was ever pass’d so ill.
Yet hence the poor are cloth’d, the hungry fed ; Health to himself, and to his infants bread 170 The lab’rer bears : What his hard heart denies, His charitable vanity supplies.
Another age shall see the golden ear Imbrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvests bury all his pride has plannid, 175 And laughing Ceres re-assume the land.
Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil ? Who plants like BATHURST, or who builds like
BOYLE. "Tis use alone that sanctifies expence, And splendor borrows all her rays from sense. 180
His father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil,
You too proceed ! make falling arts your care,