Whofe table, wit, or modeft merit share,
Unelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or play'r?
Who copies yours, or OXFORD's better part,
To eafe th' opprefs'd, and raise the finking heart?
Where'er he shines, oh Fortune, gild the fcene,
And angels guard him in the golden mean!
There, English Bounty yet a while may stand,
And honour linger ere it leaves the land.

246

But all our praises why fhould Lords ingrofs?
Rife, honeft Mufe! and fing the MAN OF Ross: 250
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause refounds.

Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently loft;

But clear and artlefs, pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the fwain?
Whofe caufeway parts the vale with fhady rows?
Whose feats the weary traveller's repofe?
Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rife?
"The MAN OF Ross," each lifping babe replies.

Y 3

VARIATIONS.

After ver. 250, in the MS.

Trace humble worth beyond Sabrina's shore
Who fings not him, oh may he fing no more!

"

NOTES.

255

260

Be

Ver. 243. OXFORD's better part,] Edward Harley, Earl of Oxford; the ion of Robert, created Earl of Oxford, and Earl of Morti mer, by Q. Anne. This nobleman died regretted by all men of letters, great numbers of whom had experienced his benefits. He left behind him one of the moft noble libraries in Europe.

Ver. 250. The MAN of ROSS:] The perfon here celebrated, who with a small eftate actually performed all thefe good works, and whofe true naine was almoft loft, (partly by the title of the Man of Rofs, given him by way of eminence, and partly by being buried without fo much as an infcription), was called Mr. John Kyrle. He died in the year 1724, aged, 90, and lies interred in the chancel of the church of Rois in Herefordfaire.

Behold the market-place with poor o'erfpread!
The MAN OF Ross divides the weekly bread:
He feeds yon alms-houfe, neat, but void of ftate, 265
Where age and want fit fmiling at the gate:
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans bleft,
The young who labour, and the old who reft.
Is any fick? the MAN OF Ross relieves,
Prefcribes, attends, the med'cine makes, and gives. 270
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Balk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more.
Defpairing quacks with curfes fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now an useless race.

B. Thrice happy man! enabled to purfue
What all fo wish, but want the pow'r to do!
Oh fay, what fums that gen'rous hand supply?
What mines, to fwell that boundless charity?

275

P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man poffefs'd-five hundred pounds a-year. 280 Blufh, Grandeur, blufh! proud courts withdraw your blaze!

Ye little ftars! hide your diminish'd rays.

B. And what? no monument, infcription, ftone? His race, his form, his name almost unknown?

286

P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his name. Go, fearch it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history;

VARIATIONS.

Enough,

Ver. 187, thus in the MS.

The regifter inrolls him with his poor,

'Tells he was born and dy'd, and tells no more.
Juft as he ought, he filed the fpace between;

Then ftole ta reft unheeded and unfeen.

NOTES.

Ver. 281. Blush, Grandeur, blush! proud courts, withdraw your blaze! &c.] In this fublime apoftrophe, they are not bid to blush, because outflripped in virtue, for no fuch contention is fuppofed; but for being out shined in their own proper pretenfions to fplendour and magnificence.

Ver. 287. Go, fearch it there,] The parith régifter.

SCRIB.

Enough, that Virtue fill'd the space between ;
Prov'd by the ends of being to have been.
When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend
The wretch, who living fav'd a candle's end:
Should'ring God's altar a vile image stands,
Belies his features, nay extends his hands;
That livelong wig which Gorgon's felf might own,
Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.

290

296

Behold what bleffings Wealth to life can lend!

And fee, what comfort it affords our end!

The floors of plafter, and the walls of dùng,

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,

On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with ftraw,
With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow ftrove with dirty red,

3CO

Great Villiers lies-Alas! how chang'd from him, 305
That life of pleasure, and that foul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love;
Or juft as gay, at council, in a ring

Of mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king.
No wit to flatter, left of all his ftore!
No fool to laugh at, which he valu’d more.

NOTES.

310

There,

Ver. 296. Eternal buckle takes in Parian ftone.] The poet ridicules the wretched taste of carving large periwigs on buffos, of which there are feveral vile examples in the tombs at Westminster, and elfes where.

Ver. 305. Great Villiers lies-] This Lord, yet more famous for his vices than his misfortunes, having been poffeffed of about 50,000l. a year, and paffed through many of the higheft pofts in the kingdom, died in the year 1687, in a remote inn in Yorkshire, reduced to the utmoft mifery.

Ver.307. Cliveden] A delightful palace, on the banks of the Thames, built by the Duke of Buckingham.

Ver. 308. Shrewsbury] The Countess of Shrewsbury, a woman abandoned to gallantries. The Earl her husband was killed by the Duke of Buckingham in a duel; and it has been said, that during the combat the held the Duke's horfes in the habit of a page.

315

320

There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of ufelefs thoufands ends.
His Grace's fate fage Cutler could forefee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, "Live like me."
As well his Grace reply'd, "Like you, Sir John?
"That I can do, when all I have is gone.'
Refolve me, Reafon, which of thefe is worse,
Want with a full, or with an empty purfe?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confefs'd;
Arife, and tell me, was thy death more blefs'd?
Cutler faw tenants break, and houfes fall,
For very want; he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a ftranger's pow'r,
For very want; he could not pay a dow'r
A few gray hairs his rev'rend temples crown'd,
'Twas very want that fold them for two pound.
What ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end,

Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend?
What but a want,, which you perhaps think mad,
Yet numbers feel, the want of what he had!
Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim,
"Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name!"
Say, for fuch worth are other worlds prepar'd?
Or are they both, in this their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tir'd-I'll tell a tale--B. Agreed.

NOTES.

325

330

336

P. Where

Ver. 322. Cutler-Arife and tell me, &c.] This is to be underflood as a falemn évocation of the shade of this illuftrious Knight, in the manner of the ancients; who ufed to call up their departed heroes by two things they principally loved and detefted, as the inoft potent of all charms. Hence this fage is conjured by the powerful mention of a full, and of an empty purse. SCRIB.

VARIATIONS.

Ver. 337, in the former editions,

That knotty point, my Lord, fhall I difcufs,
Or tell a tale-A tale.-It follows thus.

P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies
Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;
There dwelt a citizen of fober fame,

A plain good man, and Balaam was his name ;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and fo forth;

340

345

His word would pafs for more than he was worth ;
One folid difh his week-day meal affords,
An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's:
Conftant at church and 'change; his gains were fure,
His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.

The Dev'l was piqu'd fuch faintship to behold,
And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old:
But Satan now is wifer than of yore,

359

355

And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Rous'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep
The furge, and plunge his father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,
And two rich fhipwrecks blefs the lucky fhore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes:
"Live like yourself," was foon my Lady's word;
And lo! two puddings fmock'd upon the board. 360
Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,

An honeft factor ftole a gem away:

He

NOTES.

Ver. 339. Where London's column] The monument, built in memory of the fire of London, with an inscription importing that city to have been burnt by the Papifts.

Ver. 340. Like a tall bully lifts the head, and lies;] It were to be withed, the city-monument had been compared to fomething of more dignity: as, to the court-champion; when, like him, it only spoke the fenfe of the government.

SCRIB.

Ver. 355 Cornish] The author has placed the fcene of these fhipwrecks in Cornwall, not only from their frequency on that coaft, but from the inhumanity of the inhabitants to thofe to whom that misfortune arrives. When a fhip happens to be ftranded there, they have been known to bore holes in it, to prevent its getting off; to plunder, and fometimes even to maffacre the people. Nor has the parliament of England been yet able wholly to fupprefs these barbarities.