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Yet shall, my lord, your just, your noble rules
Oft have you hinted to your brother peer
To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
He gains all points who pleasingly confounds,
Consult the genius of the place in all;
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
light: s Dr. S. Clarke's bust was placed by the Queen in the Hermitage, while he regularly frequented the Court.
A waving glow the bloomy beds display,
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 !
6 See Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. lxxxvi.
The whole a labour'd
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 ;
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.