"And where, you rascal, are the spurs," you cry;
"And O! what blockhead laid the buskins by ?”
On your old batter'd mare you 'll needs be gone,
(No matter whether on four legs or none)

Splash, plunge, and stumble, as you scour the heath;
All fwear at Morden 'tis on life or death:
Wildly through Wareham ftreets you scamper on,
Raise all the dogs and voters in the town;
Then fly for fix long dirty miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingston gentry think you mad.
And all this furious riding is to prove

Your high respect, it seems, and eager love :
And yet, that mighty honour to obtain,

Banks, Shaftesbury, Doddington, may fend in vain.
Before you go, we curfe the noise you make,

And blefs the moment that you turn

As for myself, I own it to your face,

your

I love good eating, and I take my glass:

back:

But fure 'tis ftrange, dear fir, that this should be
In you amusement, but a fault in me.

All this is bare refining on a name,

To make a difference where the fault's the fame.
My father fold me to your service here,
For this fine livery, and four pounds a year.
A livery you should wear as well as I,
And this I'll prove-but lay your cudgel by.
You ferve your paffions-Thus, without a jeft,
Both are but fellow-fervants at the best.
Yourself, good Sir, are play'd by your defires,
A mere tall puppet dancing on the wires.

P. Who,

P. Who, at this rate of talking, can be free? S. The brave, wife, honeft man, and only he : All elfe are flaves alike, the world around, Kings on the throne, and beggars on the ground: He, fir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf, And (greater ftill) is master of himself : Not to-and-fro by fears and factions hurl'd, But loose to all the interefts of the world: And while that world turns round, entire and whole, He keeps the facred tenor of his foul;

In every turn of fortune still the same,

As gold unchang'd, or brighter from the flame:
Collected in himself, with godlike pride,

He fees the darts of envy glance afide;

And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempest blow,
Smiles at the idle storms that roar below.
One fuch you know, a layman, to your fhame,
And yet the honour of your blood and name,
If you can fuch a character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm your flave again.

But when in Hemfkirk's pictures you delight,
More than yourself, to fee two drunkards fight;
"Fool, rogue, fot, blockhead," or fuch names are mine:
Your's are, 66 a Connoiffeur," or " Deep Divine."
I'm chid for loving a luxurious bit,

The facred prize of learning, worth, and wit:
And yet fome fell their lands these bits to buy;
Then, pray, who fuffers moft from luxury?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no plate,
I feal no bonds, I mortgage no estate.

Befides,

Befides, high living, fir, muft wear you out With furfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout. By fome new pleasures are you ftill engrofs'd, And when you fave an hour, you think it lost. To sports, plays, races, from your books you run, And like all company, except your own.

You hunt, drink, fleep, or (idler still) you rhyme;
Why?-but to banish thought, and murder time:
And yet that thought, which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.

P. Tom, fetch a cane, a whip, a club, a stone,---
S. For what?

P. A sword, a pistol, or a gun :

I'll fhoot the dog.

S. Lord! who would be a wit?

He's in a mad, or in a rhyming fit.

P. Fly, fly, you rafcal, for your spade and fork; For once I'll fet your lazy bones to work: Fly, or I'll fend you back, without a groat, To the bleak mountains where you first were caught.

ODE TO JOHN PITT, Esq. Advising him to build a banquetting houfe on a hill that overlooks the fea.

FROM this tall promontory's brow

You look majestic down,

And fee extended wide below

Th' horizon all your own.

With growing piles the vales are crown'd,

Here hills peep over hills;

There the vast sky and fea profound
Th' increafing profpect fills.

O bid, my friend, a ftructure rise,
And this huge round command;
Then fhall this little point comprise
The ocean and the land.

Then you, like Æolus, on high,

From

your

aerial tower,

Shall fee fecure the billows fly,

And hear the whirlwinds roar.

You, with a fmile, their rage despise,
Till fome fad wreck appears,
And calls, from your relenting eyes,
The fympathizing tears.

Thus may you view, with proud delight,
While winds the deep deform,

(Till human woes your grief excite)

All nature in a storm.

Majeftic, awful scene! when, hurl'd
On furges, furges rise,

And all the heaving watery world

Tumultuous mounts the skies.

The feas and thunder roar by turns,
By turns the peals expire;
The billows flash, and æther burns
With momentary fire.

5

But

1

But lo! the furious tempefts cease,

The mighty rage fubfides;
Old ocean hush'd, in folemn peace,
Has ftill'd the murmuring tides.

Spread wide abroad, the glaffy plain,
In various colours gay,

Reflects the glorious fun again,
And doubly gilds the day.

Th' horizon glows from fide to fide,
And flames with glancing rays;
The floating, trembling, filver tide,
Is one continual blaze.

Your

eyes the profpect now command, All uncontrol'd and free,

Fly like a thought from land to land,
And dart from fea to fea.

Thus, while above the clouds we fit,
And innocently gay,

Pafs in amusements, wine, or wit,

The fultry hours away;

Sometimes, with pity, or difdain,

In thought a glance we throw

Down on the poor, the proud, the vain,

In yonder world below.

We fee, from this exalted feat,

(How fhrunk, reduc'd, confin'd!) The little perfon of the great,

As little as his mind.