Yet shall, my lord, your just, your noble rules
Fill half the land with imitating fools;
Who random drawings from your sheets shall take,
And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load some vain church with old theatric state ;
Turn arcs of triumph to a garden gate ;
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all
On some patch'd dog hole ek’d with ends of wall,
Then clap four slices of pilaster on't,
That lac'd with bits of rustic makes a front;
Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar,
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door:
Conscious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they starve, they starve by rules of art

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer
A certain truth, which many buy too dear :
Something there is more needful than expense,
And something previous e’en to taste—’tis sense,
Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And though no science, fairly worth the seven;
A light which in yourself you must perceive;
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the column, or the arch to bend,
To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot,
In all, let Nature never be forgot;
But treat the goddess like a modest fair,
Nor overdress, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty every where be spied,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.

He gains all points who pleasingly confounds,
Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.

Consult the genius of the place in all;
That tells the waters or to rise or fall;
Or helps th' ambitious hill the heavens to scale,
Or scoops in circling theatres the vale :
Calls in the country, catches opening glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades;
Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines;
Paints as you plant, and as you work designs.

Still follow sense, of every art the soul ; Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start e'en from difficulty, strike from chance : Nature shall join you; time shall make it grow A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stowe.

Without it, proud Versailles ! thy glory falls, And Nero's terraces desert their walls: The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make, Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake: Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again. E'en in an ornament its place remark, Nor in a hermitage set Dr. Clarke. 5

Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete, His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet, The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, And strength of shade contends with strēngth of

A waving glow the bloomy beds display,
Blushing in bright diversities of day,
With silver quivering rills meander'd o'er,
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more:
Tir'd of the scene parterres and fountains yield,
He finds at last he better likes a field.
Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus

stray'd,
Or sat delighted in the thickening shade,
With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet,
Or see the stretching branches long to mee ;
His son's fine taste an opener vista loves,
Foe to the dryads of his father's groves;
One boundless green or flourish'd carpet views,
With all the mournful family of yews;
The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made,
Now

sweep those alleys they were born to shade. At Timon's villa 6 let us pass a day; Where all cry out,“ What sums are thrown away;" So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Soft and agreeable come never there, Greatness with Timon dwells in such a draught As brings all Brobdignag before your thought. To compass this, his building is a town, His pond an ocean, his parterre a down: Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, A puny insect shivering at a breeze ! Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around !

The whole a labour'd

quarry
above

ground.
Two Cupids squirt before: a lake behind
Improves the keenness of the northern wind.
His gardens next your admiration call;
On every side you look, behold the wall !
No pleasing intricacies intervene,
No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suffering eye inverted Nature sees,
Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees ;
With here a fountain never to be play'd,
And there a summerhouse that knows no shade ;
Here Amphitrité sails through myrtle bowers,
There gladiators fight or die in flowers;
Unwater'd, see the drooping seahorse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.

My lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen: But soft-by regular approach-not yetFirst through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your

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; 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 prayer : Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted ceilings you devoutly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, Or 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.

But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; A hundred f otsteps scrape the marble hall: The rich buffet well colour'd serpents grace, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. Is this a dinner? this a genial room? 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, 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, 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.