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To Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington



The Vanity of Expense in People of Wealth and Quality. The abuse of the word, Taste, ver. 13. That the first principle and foundation in this, as in everything else, is Good Sense, ver. 39. The chief proof of it is to follow Nature, even in works of mere Luxury and Elegance. Instanced in Architecture and Gardening, where all must be adapted to the Genius and Use of the Place, and the Beauties not forced into it, but resulting from it, ver. 47. How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings for want of this true Foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all; and the best Examples and Rules will be but perverted into something burdensome or ridiculous, ver. 65, etc., to 98. A description of the false Taste of Magnificence; the first grand Error of which is to imagine that Greatness consists in the Size and Dimension, instead of the Proportion and Harmony of the whole, ver. 99; and the second, either in joining together Parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the Repetition of the same too frequently, ver. 105, etc. A word or two of false Taste in Books, in Music, in Painting, even in Preaching and Prayer, and lastly in Entertainments. ver. 133, etc. Yet Providence is justified in giving Wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the Poor and Laborious part of mankind, ver. 169 (recurring to what is laid down in the Essay on Man, Epistle II., and in the Epistle preceding, ver. 159, etc.). What are the proper objects of Magnificence, and a proper field for the expense of Great Men, ver. 177, etc.; and finally, the Great and Public Works which become a Prince, ver. 191 to the end,

'Tis strange, the Miser should his Cares employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy:

Is it less strange, the Prodigal should waste
His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste?
Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats;
Artists must choose his Pictures, Music, Meats:
He buys for Topham, Drawings and Designs,
For Pembroke Statues, dirty Gods, and Coins;
Rare monkish Manuscripts for Hearne alone,
And Books for Mead, and Butterflies for Sloane.
Think we all these are for himself? no more
Than his fine Wife, alas! or finer Whore.

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?
Only to show, how many Tastes he wanted.
What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste?
Some Demon whisper'd, "Visto! have a Taste."
Heav'n visits with a Taste the wealthy fool,
And needs no Rod but Ripley with a Rule.
See! sportive fate, to punish awkward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a Guide:
A standing sermon, at each year's expence,
That never Coxcomb reach'd Magnificence!

You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse,
And pompous buildings once were things of Use.
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

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On some patch'd dig-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 thro' 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 expence, And something previous ev'n to Taste-'tis Sense: Good Sense, which only is the gift of Heav'n, And tho' 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 over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty ev'ry where be spy'd,
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 heav'ns to scale,
Or scoops in circling theatres the Vale;
Calls in the Country, catches op'ning 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 ev'ry Art the Soul,
Parts answ'ring parts shall slide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n 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 thro' Mountains to the Plain,
You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
Nor in an Hermitage set Dr. Clarke.

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 strength of Light; A waving Glow the bloomy beds display,

Blushing in bright diversities of day,

With silver-quiv'ring 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.


Thro' his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus stray'd,
Or sate delighted in the thick'ning shade,
With annual joy the red'ning shoots to greet,
Or see the stretching branches long to meet!
His Son's fine Taste an op'ner 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 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, shiv'ring 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 ev'ry 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 suff'ring eye inverted Nature sees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees;
With here a Fountain, never to be play'd;

And there a Summer-house, that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite sails thro' myrtle bow'rs;
There Gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs;
Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse 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 yet







First thro' the length of yon hot Terrace sweat;
And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your


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 Sueil has bound.
Lo, some are Vellum, and the rest as good


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