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Why had not I in those good times my birth, Ere coxcomb-pyes or coxcombs were on earth? Unworthy he, the voice of Fame to hear, "That sweetest music to an honest ear; (For 'faith, Lord Fanny! you are in the wrong, The world's good word is better than a fong) Who has not learn'd, "freshfturgeon and ham-pye Are no rewards for want, and infamy!
When Luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf,
Curs'd by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself,
"To have a Tafte is infolence indeed:
"In me 'tis noble, fuits my birth and state,
My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great." Then, like the Sun, let' Bounty spread her ray, 115 And shine that fuperfluity away.
Oh Impudence of wealth! with all thy ftore, How dar'ft thou let one worthy man be poor?
finely. But if ever there was an Original in Poetry it was Pope. But his fancy was fo corrected by his judgment, and his imitation fo fpirited by his genius, that what he improved ftruck the vulgar eye more ftrongly than what he invented.
* Templa ruunt antiqua Deûm? cur, improbe, carae Non aliquid patriae tanto emetiris acervo ? Uni nimirum tibi recte femper erunt res?
magnus pofthac inimicis rifus! uterne "Ad cafus dubios fidet fibi certius? hic, qui Pluribus affuêrit mentem corpufque fuperbum; An qui contentus parvo metuenfque futuri, In pace, ut fapiens, aptarit idonea bello?
Quo magis his credas: puer hunc ego parvus
Integris opibus novi non latius ufum,
Quam nunc accifis. Videas, metato in agello,
Cum pecore et gnatis, fortem mercede colonum, Non ego, narrantem, temere edi luce profesta
VER. 122. As M**o's was, &c.] I think this light stroke of fatire ill placed; and that it hurts the dignity of the preceding morality. Horace was very ferious, and properly fo, when he faid,
"cur, Improbe ! carae
"Non aliquid patriae tanto emetiris acervo.' He remembered, and hints with just indignation at, those luxurious Patricians of his old party; who, when they had agreed to establish a fund in the caufe of Freedom, under the conduct of Brutus, could never be perfuaded to withdraw from their expenfive pleasures what was fufficient for the fup
Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall? Make Keys, build Bridges, or repair White-hall: Or to thy Country let that heap be lent,
As M**o's was, but not at five per cent. 'Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind,
Prepares a dreadful jeft for all mankind.
And who ftands fafeft? tell me, is it he
* Thus BETHEL fpoke, who always fpeaks his thought,
And always thinks the very thing he ought: 130 His equal mind I copy what I can,
And as I love, would imitate the Man.
In South-fea days not happier, when furmis'd The Lord of Thousands, than if now "Excis'd;
In foreft planted by a Father's hand,
Than in five acres now of rented land.
port of fo great a caufe. He had prepared his apology for this liberty, in the preceding line, where he pays a fine compliment to Auguftus:
"Templa ruunt antiqua Deûm ?"
which oblique Panegyric the Imitator has very properly turned into a direct ftroke of fatire.
VER. 133. In South-Sea days not happier, &c.] Mr. Pope had South-fea stock, which he did not fell out. It was valued at between twenty and thirty thousand pounds when it fell.
Quidquam, praeter❜olus fumofae cum pede pernae.
Ac mihi feu longum poft tempus venerat hofpes,
Sive operum vacuo gratus conviva per imbrem Vicinus; bene erat, non pifcibus urbe petitis, Sed pullo atque hoedo: tum penfilis uva fecundas Et nux ornabat menfas, cum duplice ficu.
Poft hoc ludus erat cuppa potare magistra:
Ac venerata Ceres, ita culmo furgeret alto,
Saeviat atque novos moveat Fortuna tumultus !
Quantum hinc imminuet? quanto aut ego parcius,
O pueri, nituiftis, ut huc novus incola venit?
VER. 150. And, what's more rare, a Poet shall say Grace.] The pleasantry of this line confifts in the fuppofed rarity of a Poet's having a table of his own; or a fenfe of gra titude for the bleffings he receives. But it contains, too,
Content with little, I can piddle here
On brocoli and mutton, round the year;
But' ancient friends (tho' poor, or out of play) That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.
'Tis true, no Turbots dignify my boards,
'From yon old walnut-tree a show'r fhall fall; 145
Then 'chearful healths (your Mistress shall have place)
And, what's more rare, a Poet shall say Grace. 150
My Life's amusements have been just the same,
And yours, my friends? thro" whose free-op'ning
None comes too early, none departs too late;
a fober reproof of people of condition, for their unmanly and brutal difufe of fo natural a duty.