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Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone,
Worn out in public, weary ev'ry eye,

Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die.
Pleasure the sex, as children Birds, pursue,
Still out of reach, yet never out of view;
Sure, if they catch, to spoil the Toy at most,
To covet flying, and regret when lost:
At last, to follies Youth could scarce defend,
It grows their Age's prudence to pretend;
Asham'd to own they gave delight before,
Reduc'd to feign it, when they give no more:
As Hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spite,
So these their merry, miserable Night;

Still round and round the Ghosts of Beauty glide,
And haunt the places where their Honour dy'd.
See how the World its Veterans rewards!
A Youth of Frolics, an old Age of Cards;
Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,
Young without Lovers, old without a Friend;
A Fop their Passion, but their Prize a Sot,
Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot!

Ah friend! to dazzle let the Vain design;

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To raise the thought, and touch the Heart be thine!
That Charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring,
Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing:

So when the Sun's broad beam has tir'd the sight,
All mild ascends the Moon's more sober light,
Serene in Virgin Modesty she shines,
And unobserv'd the glaring Orb declines.

Oh! blest with Temper, whose unclouded ray
Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day:
She who can love a Sister's charms, or hear
Sighs for a Daughter with unwounded ear:

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She who ne'er answers till a Husband cools,
Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules;
Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,
Yet has her humour most, when she obeys;
Let Fops of Fortune fly which way they will,
Disdains all loss of Tickets, or Codille;
Spleen, Vapours, or Small-pox, above them all,
And Mistress of herself, tho' China fall.

And yet, believe me, good as well as ill,
Woman's at best a Contradiction still.
Heav'n, when it strives to polish all it can
Its last best work, but forms a softer Man;
Picks from each sex, to make the Fav'rite blest,
Your love of Pleasure, our desire of Rest:
Blends, in exception to all gen'ral rules,
Your taste of Follies, with our Scorn of Fools:
Reserve with Frankness, Art with Truth ally'd,
Courage with Softness, Modesty with Pride;
Fix'd Principles, with Fancy ever new;
Shakes all together, and produces-You!

Be this a Woman's Fame: with this unblest,
Toasts live a scorn, and Queens may die a jest.
This Phoebus promis'd (I forget the year)
When those blue eyes first open'd on the sphere;
Ascendant Phoebus watch'd that hour with care,
Averted half your Parents' simple Pray'r;
And gave you Beauty, but denied the Pelf
That buys your sex a Tyrant o'er itself.
The gen'rous God, who Wit and Gold refines,
And ripens Spirits as he ripens Mines,
Kept Dross for Duchesses, the world shall know it,
To you gave Sense, Good-humour, and a Poet.

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[1735]

EPISTLE III

To Allen, Lord Bathurst

ARGUMENT

OF THE USE OF RICHES

That it is known to few, most falling into one of the extremes, Avarice or Profusion, ver. 1, etc. The Point discussed, whether the invention of Money has been more commodious or pernicious to Mankind, ver. 21 to 77. That Riches, either to the Avaricious or the Prodigal, cannot afford Happiness, scarcely Necessaries, ver. 89 to 160. That Avarice is an absolute Frenzy, without an End or Purpose, ver. 113, etc., 152. Conjectures about the Motives of Avaricious men, ver. 121 to 153. That the conduct of men, with respect to Riches, can only be accounted for by the Order of Providence, which works the general Good out of Extremes, and brings all to its great End by perpetual Revolutions, ver. 161 to 178. How a Miser acts upon Principles which appear to him reasonable, ver. 179. How a Prodigal does the same, ver. 199. The due Medium and true use of Riches, ver. 219. The Man of Ross, ver. 250. The fate of the Profuse and the Covetous, in two examples: both miserable in Life and in Death, ver. 300, etc. The story of Sir Balaam, ver. 339 to the end.

P. WHO shall decide, when Doctors disagree,
And soundest Casuists doubt, like you and me?
You hold the word, from Jove to Momus giv'n,
That Man was made the standing jest of Heav'n:
And Gold but sent to keep the fools in play,
For some to heap, and some to throw away.

But I, who think more highly of our kind (And surely, Heav'n and I are of a mind), Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound,

Deep hid the shining mischief underground:

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But when by Man's audacious labour won,
Flam'd forth this rival to its Sire, the Sun,
Then careful Heav'n supply'd two sorts of Men,
To squander These, and Those to hide again.

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Like Doctors thus, when much dispute has past, We find our tenets just the same at last. Both fairly owning, Riches, in effect, No grace of Heav'n or token of th' Elect; Giv'n to the Fool, the Mad, the Vain, the Evil, To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the Devil. What Nature wants, commodious Gold bestows,

B.

'Tis thus we eat the bread another sows.

P. But how unequal it bestows, observe,
'Tis thus we riot, while, who sow it, starve:
What Nature wants (a phrase I much distrust)
Extends to Luxury, extends to Lust:
Useful, I grant, it serves what life requires,
But dreadful too, the dark Assassin hires.
B. Trade it may help, Society extend.

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P. But lures the Pirate, and corrupts the Friend. 30 B. It raises Armies in a Nation's aid.

P. But bribes a Senate, and the Land's betray'd. In vain may heroes fight, and Patriots rave; If secret Gold sap on from knave to knave. Once, we confess, beneath the Patriot's cloak, From the crack'd bag the dropping Guinea spoke, And jingling down the back-stairs, told the crew, "Old Cato is as great a Rogue as you." Blest paper-credit! last and best supply! That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly! Gold imp'd by thee, can compass hardest things, Can pocket States, can fetch or carry Kings; A single leaf shall waft an Army o'er,

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Or ship off Senates to some distant Shore;
A leaf, like Sibyl's, scatter to and fro

Our fates and fortunes, as the wind shall blow:
Pregnant with thousands flits the Scrap unseen,
And silent sells a King, or buys a Queen,

Oh! that such bulky Bribes as all might see,
Still, as of old, incumber'd Villainy!

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Could France or Rome divert our brave designs,
With all their brandies or with all their wines?
What could they more than Knights and 'Squires con-
found,

Or water all the Quorum ten miles round?

A statesman's slumbers how this speech would spoil! 55
"Sir, Spain has sent a thousand jars of oil;
Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door;
A hundred oxen at your levée roar."

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Poor Avarice one torment more would find;
Nor could Profusion squander all in kind.
Astride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet;
And Worldly crying coals from street to street,
Whom with a wig so wild, and mien so maz’d,
Pity mistakes for some poor tradesman craz’d.
Had Colepepper's whole wealth been hops and hogs, 65
Could he himself have sent it to the dogs?
His Grace will game: to White's a Bull be led,
With spurning heels and with a butting head.
To White's be carry'd, as to ancient games,
Fair Coursers, Vases, and alluring Dames.
Shall then Uxorio, if the stakes he sweep,
Bear home six Whores, and make his Lady weep?
Or soft Adonis, so perfum'd and fine,

Drive to St. James's a whole herd of swine?
Oh filthy check on all industrious skill,

To spoil the nation's last great trade, Quadrille !

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