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If then to all men Happiness was meant,
God in Externals could not place content.

Fortune her gifts may variously dispose,
And these be happy call'd, unhappy those;
But Heaven's just balance equal will appear,
While those are plac'd in hope, and these in fear:
Not preseut good or ill, the joy or curse;
But fature views of better, or of worse.

Oh, sons of carth! attempt ye still to rise,
By mountains pil'd on mountains, to the skies?
Heaven still with laughter the vain toil surveys,
And buries madmen in the heaps they raise.
Know, all the good that individuals find,
Or God and Nature meant to mere mankind,
Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
Lie in three words, Health, Peace, and Compe-
But health subsists with temperance alone; [tence.
And peace, oh virtue! peace is all thy own.
The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain;
But these less taste them, as they worse obtain.
Say, in pursuit of profit or delight,

Who risque the most, that take wrong means or
right?

When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
Shall gravitation cease, if you go by?
Or some old temple, nodding to its fall,
For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall?

But still this world (so fitted for the knave)
Contents us not. A better shall we have?
A:kingdom of the just then let it be :
But first consider how those just agree.
The good unust merit God's peculiar care;
But who, but God, can tell us who they are?
One thinks, on Calvin Heaven's own Spirit fell;
Another deems him instrument of hell.
If Calvin feel Heaven's blessing, or its rod,
This cries there is, and that, there is no God.
What shocks one part will edify the rest,
Nor with one system can they all be blest.
The very best will variously incline,
And what rewards your virtue, punish mine.
Whatever is, is riglit. This world, 'tis true,
Was made for Caesar-but for Titus too;
And which more blest? who chain'd his country
Or he whose virtue sigh'd to lose a day? [say,
"But sometimes virtue starves while vice is
"fed "

What then? Is the reward of virtue bread?
That vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil;
The knave deserves it when he tills the soil.
The knave deserves it when he tempts the main,
Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain,
The good man may be weak, be indolent;
Nor is his claim to plenty, but content.
But grant him riches, your demand is o'er?
No-shall the good want health, the good
"want pow'r?"

Of vice or virtue, whether blest or curst, [first?
Which meets contempt, or which compassion
Count all th' advantage prosp'rous Vice attains.
'Tis but what Virtue flies from, and disdains,
And grant the bad what happiness they wou'd,
One they must want, which is, to pass for good,
Oh blind totruth,andGod's wholescheine below,
Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe?
Who sees and follows that great scheme the best,
Best knows the blessing, and will most be blest."
But fools the good alone unhappy call,
For ills or accidents that chance to all.
See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just!
See godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust!
See Sydney bleeds amid the martial strife!
Was this their virtue, or contempt of life?
Say, was it virtue, more tho' Heaven ne'er gave,
Lamented Digby! sunk thee to the grave?
Tell me, it virtue made the son expire,
Why, full of days and honor, lives the sire?
Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath,
When Nature sicken'd, and each gale was death?
Or why so long in life (if long can be
Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me?

What makes all physical or moral ill?
There deviates nature, and here wanders will.
God sends not ill; if rightly understood,
Or partial ill is universal good,

Or change admits, or nature lets it fall,
Short, and but rare, till man improv'd it all.
We just as wisely might of Heaven complain,
That righteous Abel was destroy'd by Cain,
As that the virtuous son is still at ease
When his lewd father gave the dire disease.
Think we, like some weak prince, th' Eternal
Cause

Prone for his fav'rites to reverse his laws?

Shall burning Etna, if a sage requires,
Forget to thunder, and recal her fires?
On air or sea new motions be imprest,
Oh blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast?

Add health and pow'r, and ev'ry earthly thing,
"Why bounded pow'r? why private? why no
Nay, why external for internal giv'n? [king?"
Why is not man a God, and earth a heaven?
Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive
God gives enough, while he has more to give;
Immense the pow'r, immense were the demand;
Say, at what part of nature will they stand?

What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy.
The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy,
Is virtue's prize: a better would you fix?
Then give humility a coach and six,
Justice a conqu'ror's sword, or truth a gown,
Or public spirit its great cure, a crown.
Weak, foolish man! will heaven reward us there
With the same trash mad mortals wish for here?
The boy and man an individual makes,
Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes?
Go, like the Indian, in another life
Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife;
As well as dream such trifles are assign'd,
As toys and empires, for a godlike mind:
Rewards, that either would to virtue bring
No joy, or be destructive of the thing:
How oft by these at sixty are undone
The virtues of a saint at twenty-one!
To whom can riches give repute, or trust,
Content or pleasure, but the good and just?
Judges and senates have been bought for gold;
Esteem and love were never to be sold.

Oh

Oh fool! to think God hates the worthy mind, The lover, and the love of human kind, [clear, Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience Because he wants a thousand pounds a-ycar.

Honor and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honor lies. Fortune in men has some small diff'rence made; One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade : The cobler apron'd, and the parson gown'd, The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd. "What differ more (you cry) than crown and " cowl?"

I'll tell you, friend; a wise man and a fool,
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the anonk,
Or, cobler-like, the parson will be drunk,
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow:
The rest is all but leather or prunella. [strings,
Stuck o'er with titles, and hung round with
That thou may'st be by kings, or whores of kings,
Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race,
In quiet flow from Lucrece to Luerece:
But by your fathers' worth if yours you rate,
Count ine those only who were good and great.
Go! if your antient, but ignoble blood
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood,
Go! and pretend your family is young;
Nor own your fathers have been fools so long.
What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.
Look next on greatness; say where greatness
lies?

"Where, but among the heroes and the wise?"
Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed,
From Macedonia's madman to the Swede;
The whole strange purpose of their lives, to find
Or make, an enemy of all mankind!
Not one looks backward, onward still he goes,
Yet ne'er looks forward farther than his nose.
No less alike the politic and wise;
All sly, slow things, with circumspective eyes.
Men in their loose unguarded hours they take,
Not that themselves are wise, but others weak.
But grant that those can conquer, these can cheat;
Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great:
Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave,
1s but the more a fool, the more a knave.
Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains,
Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed
Like Socrates, that man is great indeed..
What's fame? a fancy'd life in other's breath;
A thing beyond us, ev'n before our death.
Just what youhear,youhave,andwhat's unknown
The same (my Lord) if Tully's, or your own.
All that we feel of it begins and ends

In the small circle of our focs or friends;

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When what t'oblivion better were resign'd,
Is hung on high, to poison half mankind.
All fame is foreign, but of true desert;
Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart:
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs
Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas
And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels,
Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.

In parts superior what advantage lies?
Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise?
"Tis but to know how little can be known;
To see all others' faults, and feel our own:
Condemn'd in business or in arts to drudge,
Without a second, or without a judge.
Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
Painful pre-eminence! yourself to view
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.

Bring then these blessings to a strict accounts Make fair deductions; see to what they mount! How much of other each is sure to cost; How each for other oft is wholly lost; How inconsistent greater goods with these; How sometimes life is risqu'd, and always ease: Think, and if still these things thy envy call, Say, would'st thou be the man to whom they fall? To sigh for ribands, if thou art so silly, Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life? Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife! If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shin'd, The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind! Or ravish'd with the whistling of a name, See Cromwell, damn'd to everlasting fame! If all, united, thy ambition call,

From antient story learn to scorn them all. There, in the rich, the houor'd, fam'd, and

great,

See the false scale of happiness complete!
In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay,
How happy those to ruin, these betray.
Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows,
From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose,
In each how guilt and greatness equal ran,
And all that rais'd the hero sunk the man:
Now Europe's laurels on their brows behold,
But stain'd with blood, or ill exchang'd forgold;
Then see them broke with toils or sunk in ease,
Or infamous for plunder'd provinces.

Oh wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame
F'er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame!
What greater bliss attends their close of life?
| Some greedy minion, or imperious wife.
The trophied arches, storied halls invade,
And haunt their lunbers in the pompous shade.
Alas! not dazzled with their noon-tide ray,
Compute the morn and ev'ning to the day;
The whole amount of that enormous fame,

Alike or when, or where, they shone, or shine, A tale, that blends their glory with their shame!

Or on the Rubicon or on the Rhine.

A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod;
An honest man's the noblest work of God.
Fame but from death a villain's name can save,
As justice tears his body from the grave;

Know then this truth-(enough for man to know)

"Virtue alone is happiness below." The only point where human bliss stands still, And tastes the good without the fall to ill :

Where

Where only merit constant pay receives,
Is blest in what it takes, and what it gives;
The joy unequall'd, if its ends it gain;
And if it lose, attended with no pain:
Without satiety, tho' e'er so blest,

And but more relish'd as the more distrest:
The broadest mirth unfeeling folly wears,
Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears:
Good, from each object, from each place acquir'd,
For ever exercis'd, yet never tir'd ;'
Never elated while one inan 's opprest;
Never dejected while another's blest:
And where no wants, no wishes can remain,
Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain.
See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow?
Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can

know!

Yet poor with fortune, aud with learning blind,
The bad must miss, the good untanght will find,
Slaves to no sect, who takes no private road;
But looks through nature, up to nature's God;
Pursues that chain which sinks the immense
design,

Joins heaven and earth, and mortal and divine;
Sees that no being any bliss can know,
But touches some above, and some below;
Learns, from this union or the rising whole,
The first, last purpose of the human soul;
And knows where faith, law, morals, all began,
All end, in love of God, and love of inan.
For him alone, hope leads from goal to goal,
And opens still, and opens on his soul;
Till lengthen'd on to faith, and unconfin'd,
It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind;
He sees why nature plants in man alone
Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown.
(Nature, whose dietates to no other kind
Are giv'n in vain, but what they seek they find)
Wisc is her present; she connects in this
His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss;
At once his own bright prospect to be blest,
And strongest motive to assist the rest.

Self-love thus push'd to social, to divine,
Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine.
Is this too little for the boundless heart?
Extend it, let thy enemies have part;
Grasp the whole words of reason, life, and sense,
In one close system of benevolence:
Happier as kinder, in whate'er degree,
And height of bliss but height of charity.
God loves from whole to parts: but huinan soul

Must rise from individual to the whole.
Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake,
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake;
The centre mov'd, a circle straight succeeds,
Another still, and still another spreads;
Friend, parents, neighbour, first it will embrace;
His country next; and next all human race;
Wide and more wide, th' o'erflowing of the mind
Take ev'ry creature in, of ev'ry kind;
Earth smiles around, with boundless beauty blest,
And heaven beholds its image on his breast.
Comethen, my friend! my genius! come along;
Oh master of the poet, and the song!

And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends,
To man's low passions, or their glorious ends,
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise,
To fall with dignity, with temper rise;
Form'd by thy converse, happily to steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe;
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,
Intent to reason, or polite to please.
Oh! while along the stream of time thy name
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame,
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale?
When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose,
Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes,
Shall then this verse to future age pretend
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend?
That, urg'd by thee, I turn'd the tuneful art,
From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart;
For wit's false mirror held up nature's light;
Show'd erring pride, whatever is, is right;
That reason, passion, answer one great aim;
That true self-love and social are the same;
That virtue only inakes our bliss below;
And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know.

§ 17. Moral Essays. In Four Epistles. Pope. To Sir Richard Temple, L. Cobham.

EPISTLE I.

YES, you despise the man to books confin'd,
Who from his study rails at human kind;
Tho' what he learns he speaks, and may advance
Some gen'ral maxims, or be right by chance.
The coxcomb bird, so talkative and grave,
That from his eage, calls Cuckold, Whore, and
Tho' many a passenger he rightly call, [Knave
You hold him no Philosopher at all.

And yet the fate of all extremes is such,
Men may be read, as well as Books, too much.
To observations which ourselves we make,
We grow more partial for th' observer's sake;
To written wisdom, as another's less: [gues
Maxims are drawn from notions, these from
There's some peculiar in cach leaf and grain,
Some unmark'd fibre, or some varying vein;
Shall only man be taken in the gross?
Grant but as many sorts of minds as moss.

That each from other differs, first confess: Next, that he varies from himself no less; Add nature's, custom's, reason's, passion's strife, And all opinion's colors cast on life.

Our depths who fathoms, or our shallows find-, Quick whirls, and shifting eddies of our minds? On human actions reason tho' you can, It may be reason, but it is not inan : His principle of action once explore, That instant 'tis his principle no more. Like following like, thro' creatures you dissect, You lose it in the moment you detect. Yet more; the diff'rence is as great between The optics seeing, as the objects seen. All manners take a tincture from our own; Or come discolor'd thro' our passions shown.

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Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplics, Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes. Nor will life's stream for observation stay: It hurries all too fast to mark their way; In vain sedate reflections we would make, When half our knowledge we must snatch, not Oft in the passions' wild rotation test, [take. Our spring of action to ourselves is lost: Tir'd, not determin'd, to the last we yield; And what comes then is master of the field, As the last image of that troubled heap, When sense subsides, and fancy sports in sleep, (Tho' past the recollection of the thought), Becomes the stuff of which our dream is wrought: Something as dim to our eternal view, Is thus, perhaps, the cause of most we do. True, some are open, and to all men known; Others so very close, they 're hid from none: (So darkness strikes the sense no less than light) Thus gracious Chandos is belov'd at sight; And ev'ry child hates Shylock, tho' his soul Still sits at squat, and peeps not from its hole. At half mankind when gen rous Manly raves, All know 'tis virtue, for he thinks them knaves. When universal homage Umbra pays, All say 'tis vice, and itch of vulgar praise. When flatt'ry glares, all hate it in a queen, While one there is who charins us with his spleen. But these plain characters we rarely find: Tho' strong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind: Or puzzling Contraries confound the whole; Or Affectations quite reverse the soul. The dull, flat falsehood serves for policy: And in the cunning, truth itself 's a lie: Unthought-of frailties cheat us in the wise: The fool lies hid in inconsistencies.

See the same man, in vigor, in the gout; Alone, in company; in place, or out; Early at business, and at hazard late; 3d at a fox-chace, wise at a debate; Drunk at a borough, civil at a ball; Friendly at Hackney, faithless at Whitehall. Catius is ever moral, ever grave, Thinks, who endures a knave is next a knave, se just at dinner -- then prefers, no doubt, Augue with venison to saint without. Who would not praise Patricio's high desert, I'is hand mistaia'd, his uncorrupted heart, His comprehensive head! all int rests weigh'd, All Europe sav'd, yet Britain not betray'd. He thanks you not, his pride is in piquette, Newmarket fame, and judgement at a bett. What made (says Montaigne, or more sage Otho a warrior, Cromwell a buffoon? A perjur'd prince a leaden saint severe. A godless regent tremble at a star? The throne a bigot keep, a genius quit, Faithless thro' piety, and dup'd thro'wit? Europe a woman, child, or dotard rule, And just her wisest monarch made a fool?

In vain the sage, with retrospective eye, Wouldfromth'apparent What conclude the Why; Infer the Motive from the Deed, and show That what we chanc'd was what we meant to do. Behold! if Fortune, or a Mistress frowns, Someplunge inbusiness, others shavetheir crowns: To ease the soul of one oppressive weight, This quits an Empire, that embroils a State; The saine adust complexion has impell'd Charles to the Convent, Philip to the Field. Not always Actions show the man; we find Who does a kindness, is not therefore kind : Perhaps Prosperity becalm'd his breast, Perhaps the Wind just shifted from the East. Not therefore. humble he who seeks retreat, Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the great. Who combats bravely is not therefore brave; He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave: Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise; His pride in Reas'ning, not in Acting, lies.

But grant that actions best discover man; Take the most strong, and sort them as you can. The few that glare, each character must mark; You balance not the many in the dark. What will you do with such as disagree? Suppress them or miscall them policy? Must then at once (the character to save) The plain rough Hero turn a crafty Knave? Alas! in truth the man but chang'd his mind, Perhaps was sick, in love, or had not din'd. Ask why from Britain Cæsar would retreat? Caesar himself might whisper, he was beat. Why risk the World's great Empire for a Punk? Cæsar perhaps might answer, he was drunk. But, sage historians! 'tis your task to prove, One action Conduct; one, heroic Love.

"Tis from high life high characters are drawn ; A Saint in Crape, is twice a Saint in Lawn: A Judge is just, a Chanc'llor juster still; A Gownman, learn'd; a Bishop, what you will; Wise, if a Minister; but, if a King, [thing. More wise, more learn'd, more just, more ev'ry Court-Virtues bear, like Gems, the highest rate, Born where Heav'n's influence scarce can pene

trate:

In life's low vale, the soil the Virtue's like, They please as beauties, here as wonders strike. Tho' the same sun with all diffusive rays Blush in the Rose, and in the Diamond blaze, We prize the stronger effort of his pow'r, And justly set the Gem above the Flow'r. 'Tis Education forms the common mind; Char-Just as the twig is bent, the tree 's inclin'd. [ron!)

Know, God and Nature only are the same: In man, the judgement shoots at flying game; A bird of passage! gone as soon as found; Now in the moon perhaps, now under ground,

Boastful and rough, your first son is a 'Squire;
The next a Tradesman, meek, and much a liar;
Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave;
Will sneaks a Scriv'ner, an exceeding knave:
Is he a Churchman? then he's fond of pow'r;"
A Quaker? sly; a Presbyterian? sour;
A smart Free-thinker? all things in an hour.

Ask men's Opinions: Scoto now shall tell
How trade increases, and the world goes well;
Strike off his Pension, by the setting sun,
And Britain, if not Europe, is undone.

R

That

That gay Free-thinker, a fine talker once,
What turns him now a stupid silent dunce?
Some God, or Spirit, he has lately found:
Or chanc'd to meet a minister that frown'd.
Judge we by Nature? Habit can efface,
Int'rest o'ercome, or Policy take place:
By Actions? those Uncertainty divides;
By Passions? those Dissimulation hides :
Opinions? they still take a wider range:
Find, if you can, in what you cannot change.
Manners with Fortunes, Humors turn with
Climes,

Tenets with Books, and Principles with Times.
Search then the Ruling Passion: There, alone,
The Wild are constant, and the Cunning known;
The Fool consistent, and the False sincere;
Priests, Princes, Women, no dissemblers here.
This clew once found, unravels all the rest,
The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest.
Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days,
Whose ruling Passion was the Lust of Praise
Born with whate er could win it from the wise,
Women and Fools must like him or he dies;
Tho' wond'ring Senates hung on all he spoke,
The Club must hail him Master of the Joke.
Shall parts so various aim at nothing new?
He 'll'shine a Tully and a Wilmot too :
Then turns repentant, and his God adores
With the same spirit that he drinks and whores;
Enough if all around him but admire,
And now the Punk applaud, and now the Friar.
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 shum 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 wise his heart approves ;
A Rebel to the very king he loves;
He dies, sad outcast of each church and state,
And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great.
Ask you why Wharton broke thro' 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. When Cataline by rapine swell'd his store; When Cæsar made a noble dame a whore; In this the Lust, 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 charni, 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 ştrength enjoy, As Fits give vigor just when they destroy,

Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
Yet taimes not this; it sticks to our last sand.
Consistent in our follies and our sins,
Here honest Nature ends as she begins.

Old Politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in business to the last;
As weak, as earnest; and as gravely out,
As sober Lanesb'row dancing in the gout.

Behold a rev'rend sire, who want of grace
Has made the father of a nameless race,
Show'd from the wall perhaps, or rudely prest
By his own son, that passes by unblest:
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
And envies ev'ry sparrow that he sees.

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

The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still strives to save the hallow'd taper's end, Collects her breath as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires. "Odious! in woollen! 't would 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 lifelessface: "One would not, sure, be frightful when one's * dead

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And-Betty-give this cheek a little red." The courtier smooth, who forty years had An humble servant to all human kind, [shin'd Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir,

If-wherel 'm going-Icould serve you, Sir?"

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I give and I devise " (old Euclio said,. And sigh’d) “my lands and tenements to Ned.” 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 crad.

Not that, I cannot part with that”—and dies

And you, brave Cobham, to your latest breath Shall feel your ruling passion strong in death Such in those moments, as in all the past,

66

Oh save my country, Heaven!" shall be your

last.

EPISTLE 11

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 fai

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 Magdalene's loose hair and lifted eye, Or drest in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine, With simp'ring angels, palms, and harps divine;

Whether

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