'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 must 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: P. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend.

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,

La Belle Assemblée.-No. XL.

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,
Or ship off senates to some distant shore;
A leaf, like Sybils, 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, encumber'd villainy!
Could France or Rome divert our brave de-
signs

With all their brandies, or with all their wines? What could they more than knights and 'squires

confound,

Or water all the quorum ten miles round? A statesman's slumbers how this speech would spoil?

"Sir, Spain has sent a thousand jars of oil; "Huge bales of British cloth blockade the door:

"A hundred oxen at your levee roar."

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,

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 carried, 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 wcep.

Or soft Adonis, so perfum'd and fine,
Drive to St. James's a whole herd of swine?
O filthy check on all industrious skill,
To spoil the nation's last great trade, Quadrille!
Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall,
What say you? B. Say; why take it, gold and

all.

P. What riches give us, let us then enquire: Meat, fire, and clothes. B. What more? P. Meat, clothes, and fire.

Is this too little? would you more than live?
Alas! 'tis more than Turner finds they give.
Alas! 'tis more than (all his visions past)
Unhappy Wharton, waking, found at last!
What can they give? to dying Hopkins heirs;
To Chartres, vigour; Japhet, nose and ears?
Can they, in gems bid pallid Hippia glow?
In Fulvia's buckle ease the throbs below?
Or heal old Narses, the obscener ail,
With all th' embroidery plaster'd at thy tail?
They might (were Harpax not too wise to
spend)

Give Harpax self the blessing of a friend;
Or find some doctor that would save the life
Of wretched Shylock, spite of Shylock's wife :
But thousands die, without or this or that;
Die, end endow a college or a cat!
To some, indeed, Heaven grants the happierfate,
T'enrich a bastard, or a son they hate.

Perhaps you think the poor might have
their part?

Bond damus the poor, and hates them from

his heart.

The grave Sir Gilbert holds it for a rule, That ev'ry man in want is knave or fool: "God cannot love (says Blunt, with tearless eyes)

"The wretch he starves"-and piously denies: But the good bishop, with a meeker air, Admits, and leaves them, providence's care.

Yet to be just to these poor men of pelf, Each does but hate his neighbour as himself: Damn'd to the mines, an equal fate betides The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides. B. Who suffer'd thus, mere charity should own,

Must act on motives powerful, tho’unknown. P. Some war, some plague, or famine they foresee,

Some revelation hid from you and me.
Why Shylock wants a meal, the cause is found;
He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound.
What made directors cheat in South sea year?
To live on ven'son when it sold so dear,
Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys?
Phryne foresees a general excise.

Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum?

Alas! they fear a man will cost a plum.

Wise Peter sees the world's respect for gold, And therefore hopes this nation may be sold: Glorious ambition! Peter, swell thy store, And be what Rome's great Didius was before.

The crown of Poland, venal twice an age, To just three millions stinted modest Gage. But nobler scenes Maria's dreams unfold, Hereditary realms, and worlds of gold. Congenial souls! whose life one av'rice joins, And one fate buries in th' Austrian mines.

Much-injur'd Blunt! why bears he Britain's bate?

A wizard told him in these words our fate : "At length corruption, like a gen'ral flood (c (So long by watchful ministers withstood), "Shall deluge all; and av'rice, creeping on, "Spread like a low-boru mist, and blot the sun;

"Statesman and patriot ply alike the stocks, "Peeress and butler share alike the box, "And judges job, and bishops bite the town, "And mighty dukes pack cards for half a

crown.

"See Britain sunk in lucre's sordid charms, "And France reveng'd of Anne's and Edward's arms!"

'Twas no court badge, great Scriv'ner! fir'd thy brain,

Nor lordly luxury, nor city gain :

No, 'twas thy righteous end, asham'd to see
Senates degen'rate, patriots disagree,
And nobly wishing party-rage to cease,
To buy both sides, and give thy country peace.
"All this is madness,” cries a sober sage :
But who, my friend, has reason in his rage?
"The ruling passion, be it what it will,
"The ruling passion conquers reason still.”
Less mad the wildest whimsy we can frame,
Than e'en that passion, if it has no aim;
For though such motives folly you may eall,
The folly's greater to have none at all.

Hear then the truth: "Tis Heaven each

passion sends,

"And diffrent men directs to diffèrent ends. "Extremes in Nature equal good produce; ` "Extremes in man concur to genʼral use.” Ask we what makes one keep, and one bestow? That pow'r who bids the ocean ebb and flow, Bids seed-time, harvest,equal course maiutain, Thro' reconcil'd extremes of drought and rain; Builds life on death, on change duration founds, [rounds. And gives th' eternal wheels to know their

Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store, Sees but a backward steward for the poor: This year a reservoir, to keep and spare ; The next, a fountain, sponting thro' his heir,

In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst; And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.

Old Cotta sham'd his fortune and his birth, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth: What tho' (the use of barb'rous spits forgot) His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot? His court with nettles, moats with cresses stor'd,

With soups unbought and sallads blest his

board?

If Cotta liv'd on pulse, it was no more
Than Bramins, Saints, and Sages did before;
To cram the rich was prodigal expence ?
And who would take the poor from Provi-
dence?

Like some lone chartreux stands the good old bail,

Silence without, and fasts within the wall:
No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound,
No noontide bell invites the country round:
Tenants with sighs the smokeless tow`rs sur-
vey,

And turn th' unwilling steeds another way:
Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er,
Curse the sav'd candle, and unop'ning door;
While the gaunt mastiff, growling at the gate,
Affrights the beggar, whom he longs to eat.

Not so his son, he mark'd this oversight, And then mistook reverse of wrong for right. (For what to shun will no great knowledge need;

But what to follow is a task indeed.)
Yet sure of qualities deserving praise,
More go to ruin fortunes than to raise,
What slaughter'd hecatombs, with floods of
wine,

Fill the capacious 'squire, and deep divine!
Yet no mean motive this profusion draws,
His oxen perish in his country's cause;
'Tis George and Liberty that crowns the
cup,

The sense to value riches, with the art T'enjoy them, and the virtue to impart, Not meanly nor ambitiously pursu'd, Not sunk by sloth, nor rais'd by servitude; To balance fortune by a just expence, Join with economy magnificence; With splendour charity, with plenty health, Oh! teach us, Bathurst! yet unspoil'd by wealth!

That secret rare between th' extremes to move Of mad good-nature and of mean self-love.

B. To worth or want well weigh'd be bounty

given,

And ease or emulate the care of Heav'n : (Whose measure full o'erflows on human race) Mend fortune's fault, and justify her grace. Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffus'd; As poison heals, in just proportiou us'd: lu heaps, like ambergris, a stink it lies; But well dispers'd is incense to the skies. P. Who starves by nobles or with nobles eats?

The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats.

Is there a lord, who knows a cheerful noon
Without a fiddler, flatt'rer, or buffoon?
Whose table wit or modest merit share,
Unelbow'd by a gamester, pimp, or play'r?
Who copies yours, or Oxford's better part,
To ease th opprest, and raise the sinking
heart?

Where'er he shines, oh, Fortune! gild the

scene,

And angels guard him in the golden mean! There English bounty yet a while may stand, And honour finger ere it leaves the land.

But all our praises why should lords engross?

Rise, honest Muse! and sing The Man of Ross:

Picas'd Vaga echoes thro' her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.

up.

The woods recede around the naked seat,
The sylvans groan-no matter-for the fleet :
Next goes the wool-to clothe our valiant
bands:

Last for his country's love, he sells his lands. To town he comes, completes the nation's hope,

Aud heads the bold train-bands, and burns a pope.

And shall not Britain now reward his toils, Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils? In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his

canse;

His thankless country leaves him to her laws.

brow?

From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Not to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud fails magnificently lost,

But clear and artless, pouring thro' the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady
rows?

Whose seats the weary traveller repose? Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise?

"The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!

The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread:

[Moral Essays

state,

more:

His race, his form, his name almost unknown? P. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame,

Will never mark the marble with his name! Go, search it there, where to be born and die,

Of rich and poor makes all the history; Enough, that virtue fill'd the space between; Prov'd by the ends of being, to have been. When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend The wretch, who living sav'd a candle's end; Should'ring God's altar a vile image stands, Belies his features, may extends his hands; That live-long wig which Gorgon's self might

own,

Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.
Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend!
And see what comfort it affords our end.

In the worst inn's worst roon, with mat half hung,

The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw, With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, Great Villiers lies-alas! how chang'd from

bim

That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim! Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury and love;

Of mimic statesmen, and their merry king,
No wit to flatter left of all his store!
No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame-this lord of useless thousands ends.
His Grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, " Live like

me."

As well his Grace replied, "Like you, Sir John!

"That I can do, when all I have is goue." Resolve me, Reason, which of these is worse, Want with a full, or with an empty purse? Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confess'd; Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd? Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall, For very want; he could not build a wall. His only daughter in a stranger's pow'r, For very want; he could not pay a dow'r. A few grey hairs his rev'reud temples crown'd, 'Twas very want that sold them for two pound. What! even denied a cordial at his end, Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend! What but a want, which you perhaps think mad,

Yet numbers feel the want of what he had! Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim, "Virtue! and wealth! what are ye but a name!"

Say, for such worth are other worlds prepar'd!

Or are they both in this their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed,
But you are tir'd—I'll tell a tale-B. Agreed.

P. Where London's column, pointing at the

skies,

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks ; He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes:

"Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word;
And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board.
Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,
An honest factor stole a gem away;

He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit,

So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought:

"I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat;

"Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice,

"And am so clear too of all other vice."

The tempter saw his time; the work he plied;

Stocks and subscriptions pour on ev'ry side, 'Till all the dæmon makes his full descent In one abundant show'r of cent. per cent. Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, Then dubs director, and secures his soul.

Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a blessing, now was wit, And God's good providence a lucky hit. Things change their titles, as our manners turn:

His compting-house employ'd the Sunday

morn:

Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life),
But duly sent his family and wife.
There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-
tide

My good old lady catch'd a cold, and died.

A nymph of quality admires our knight; He marries, bows at court, and grows polite;

Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair)

The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air; First, for his son a gay commission buys, Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies.

His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife;

She bears a coronet and p-x for life.
In Britain's senate he a seat obtains,
And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains.
My lady falls to play: so bad her chance,
He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;
The House impeach him, Coningsby ha-

rangues;

The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam haugs;

Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy

own,

His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown;
The devil and the king divide the prize,
And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.

OF THE USE OF RICHES.

'Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ

To gain those riches he can ne'r enjoy :
Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste
His wealth, to purchase what he n'er can taste?
Nor 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 hasVirro painted, built, and planted?

Only to shew how many tastes he wanted.

What brought SirVisto's ill-got wealth to waste?
Some dæmon whisper'd, "Visto! have a taste."
Heaven 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;