Sometimes o'er distant climes I stray,
By guides experienc'd taught the way;
The wonders of each region view,
From frozen Lapland to Peru;

Bound o'er rough seas, and mountains bare,
Yet ne'er forsake my elbow chair.
Sometimes some fam'd historian's pen
Recalls past ages back again,
Where all I see, through ev'ry page,
Is but how men, with senseless rage,
Each other rob, destroy, and burn,
To serve a priest's or statesman's turn;
Though loaded with a diff'rent aim,
Yet always asses much the same.
Sometimes I view with much delight,
Divines their holy game-cocks fight;
Here faith and works, at variance set,
Strive hard who shall the vict'ry get;
Presbytery and episcopacy

They fight so long, it would amaze ye:
Here free-will holds a fierce dispute
With reprobation absolute;

There sense kicks transubstantiation,
And reason pecks at revelation.
With learned Newtou now I fly
O'er all the rolling orbs on high,
Visit new worlds, and for a minute

This old one scorn, and all that's in it:
And now with lab'ring Boyle I trace
Nature through ev'ry winding maze,
The latent qualities admire
Of vapours, water, air, and fire:
With pleasing admiration see
Matter's surprising subtilty;
As how the smallest lamp displays,
For miles around, its scatter'd rays;
Or how (the case still more t' explain)
A f-t, that weighs not half a grain,
The atmosphere will oft perfume
Of a whole spacious drawing-room.
Sometimes I pass a whole long day
In happy indolence away,
In fondly meditating o'er
Past pleasures, and in hoping more:
Or wander through the fields and woods,
And gardens bath'd in circling floods;
There blooming flowers with rapture view,
And sparkling gems of morning dew,
Whence in my mind ideas rise
Of Cælia's cheeks, and Chloe's eyes.
'T is thus, my lord, I free from strife
Spend an inglorious country life;
These are the joys I still pursue,
When absent from the town and you;
Thus pass long summer suns away,
Busily idle, calmly gay:

Nor great, nor mean, nor rich, nor poor,
Not having much, nor wishing more;
Except that you, when weary grown
Of all the follies of the town,
And seeing, in all public places,
The same vain fops and painted faces,
Would sometimes kindly condescend
To visit a dull country friend:
Here you'll be ever sure to meet
A hearty welcome though no treat,
One who has nothing else to do,
But to divert himself and you:

2 See Boyle's Experiments.

A house, where quiet guards the door,
No rural wits smoke, drink, and roar,
Choice books, safe horses, wholesome liquor,
Clean girls, backgammon, and the vicar.

AN ESSAY ON VIRTUE.

TO THE HONOURABLE PHILIP YORKE, ESQ.

THOU, whom nor honours, wealth, nor youth can spoil

With the least vice of each luxuriant soil,
Say, Yorke, (for sure, if any, thou caust tell)
What virtue is, who practice it so well;
Say, where inhabits this sultana queen ;
Prais'd and ador'd by all, but rarely seen :
By what sure mark her essence can we trace,
When each religion, faction, age, and place,
Sets up some fancy'd idol of its own,
A vain pretender to her sacred throne ?
In man too oft a well-dissembled part,
A self-denying pride in woman's heart,
In synods faith, and in the fields of fame
Valour usurps her honours and her name;
Whoe'er their sense of virtue would express,
'T is still by something they themselves possess.
Hence youth good-humour, frugal craft old-age,
Warm politicians term it party-rage,

True churchmen zeal right orthodox; and hence
Fools think it gravity, and wits pretence;
To constancy alone fond lovers join it,
And maids unask'd to chastity confine it.

But have we then no law besides our will?
No just criterion fix'd to good and ill?
As well at noon we may obstruct our sight,
Then doubt if such a thing exists as light;
For no less plain would Nature's law appear
As the meridian Sun unchang'd and clear,
Would we but search for what we were design'd,
And for what end th' Almighty form'd mankind;
A rule of life we then should plainly see,
For to pursue that end must virtue be.

Then what is that? not want of power or fame, Or worlds unnumber'd to applaud his name, But a desire his blessings to diffuse, And fear lest millions should existence lose; His goodness only could his power employ, And au eternal warmth to propagate his joy.

Hence soul and sense,diffus'd through ev'ry place, Make happiness as infinite as space; Thousands of suns beyond each other blaze, Orbs roll o'er orbs, and glow with mutual rays; Each is a world, where, form'd with wondrous art, Unnumber'd species live through ev'ry part: In ev'ry tract of ocean, earth, and skies, Myriads of creatures still successive rise: Scarce buds a leaf, or springs the vilest weed, But little flocks upon its verdure feed ; No fruit our palate courts, or flow'r our smell, But on its fragrant bosom nations dwell, All form'd with proper faculties to share The daily bounties of their Maker's care: The great Creator from his heav'nly throne, Pleas'd, on the wide-expanded joy looks down, And his eternal law is only this,

That all contribute to the general bliss.

Nature so plain this primal law displays, Each living creature sees it, and obeys;

JUST broke from school, pert, impudent, and raw,
Expert in Latin, more expert in taw,
His honour posts o'er Italy and France,
Measures St. Peter's dome, and learns to dance.
Thence, having quick through various countries
flown,

Glean'd all their follies, and expos'd his own,
He back returns, a thing so strange all o'er,
As never ages past produc'd before:
A monster of such complicated worth,
As no one single clime could e'er bring forth;
Half atheist, papist, gamester, bubble, rook,
Half fidler, coachman, dancer, groom, and cook.
Next, because bus'ness is now all the vogue,
And who 'd be quite polite must be a rogue,
In parliament he purchases a seat,
To make the accomplish'd gentleman complete.
There safe in self-sufficient impudence,
Without experience, honesty, or sense,
Unknowing in her int'rest, trade, or laws,
He vainly undertakes his country's cause:
Forth from his lips, prepar'd at all to rail,
Torrents of nonsense burst, like bottled ale, [dull;
Though shallow, muddy; brisk, though mighty
Fierce without strength; o'erflowing, though not full.
Now quite a Frenchman in his garb and air,
His neck yok'd down with bag and solitaire,
The liberties of Britain he supports,
And storms at placemen, ministers, and courts;
Now in cropp'd greasy hair, and leather breeches,
He loudly bellows out his patriot speeches;
King, lords, and commons ventures to abuse,
Yet dares to show those ears he ought to lose.
From hence to White's our virtuous Cato flies,
There sits with countenance erect and wise,
And talks of games of whist, and pig-tail pies;
Plays all the night, nor doubts cach law to break,
Himself unknowingly has help'd to make;
Trembling and anxious, stakes his utmost groat,
Peeps o'er his cards, and looks as if he thought;
Next morn disowns the losses of the night,
Because the fool would fain be thought a bite.
Devoted thus to politics and cards,
Nor mirth, nor wine, nor women he regards,

'Parody on these lines of sir John Denham: Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull; Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full.

So far is ev'ry virtue from his heart,
That not a gen'rous vice can claim a part;
Nay, lest one human passion e'er should mové
His soul to friendship, tenderness, or love,
To Figg and Broughton he commits his breast,
To steel it to the fashionable test.

Thus poor in wealth, he labours to no end,
Wretched alone, in crowds without a friend;
Insensible to all that 's good or kind,
Deaf to all merit, to all beauty blind;
For love too busy, and for wit too grave,
A harden'd, sober, proud, luxurious, knave;
By little actions striving to be great,
And proud to be, and to be thought a cheat.
And yet in this so bad is his success,
That as his fame improves his rents grow less;
On parchment wings his acres take their flight,
And his unpeopled groves admit the light;
With his estate his int'rest too is done,
His honest borough seeks a warmer sun;
For him, now cash and liquor flows no more,
His independent voters cease to roar;
And Britain soon must want the great defence
Of all his honesty and eloquence,

But that the gen'rous youth, more anxious grown
For public liberty than for his own,
Marries some jointur'd antiquated crone;
And boldly, when his country is at stake,
Braves the deep yawning gulf, like Curtius, for its
Quickly again distress'd for want of coin, [sake.
He digs no longer in th' exhausted mine,
But seeks preferment, as the last resort,
Cringes each morn at levées, bows at court,
And, from the hand he hates, implores support:
The minister, well pleased at small expense
To silence so much rude impertinence,
With squeeze and whisper yields to his demands,
And on the venal list enroll'd he stands;
A ribband and a pension buy the slave,
This bribes the fool about him, that the knave.
And now arriv'd at his meridian glory,
He sinks apace, despis'd by Whig and Tory;
Nor shakes the senate with his patriot roar,
Of independence now he talks no more,
But silent votes, and, with court-trappings hung,
Eyes his own glitt'ring star, and holds his tongue.
In craft political a bankrupt inade,
He sticks to gaming, as the surer trade;
Turns downright sharper, lives by sucking blood,
And grows, in short, the very thing he would:
Hunts out young heirs, who have their fortunes spent,
And lends them ready cash at cent per cent;
Lays wages on his own and others' lives,
Fights uncles, fathers, grandmothers, and wives,
Till Death at length, indignant to be made
The daily subject of his sport and trade,
Veils with his sable hand the wretch's eyes,
And, groaning for the bets he loses by 't, he dies.

The toss of quality and high-bred fileer,
Now lady Harriot reach'd her fifteenth year:
Wing'd with diversions all her moments flew,
Each as it pass'd presenting something new;
Breakfasts and auctions wear the morn away,
Each ev'ning gives an opera, or a play;
Then brag's eternal joys all night remain,
And kindly usher in the morn again.

For love no time has she, or inclination,
Yet must coquet it for the sake of fashion;
For this she listens to each fop that 's near,
Th' embroider'd colonel flatters with a sneer,
And the cropt ensign nuzzles in her ear.
But with most warmth her dress and airs inspire
Th' ambitious bosom of the landed 'squire,
Who fain would quit plump Dolly's softer charms,
For wither'd, lean, right honourable arms;
He bows with reverence at her sacred shrine,
And treats her as if sprung from race divine;
Which she returns with insolence and scorn,
Nor deigns to smile on a plebeian born.

Ere long, by friends, by cards, and lovers cross'd, Her fortune, health, and reputation lost; Her money gone, yet not a tradesman paid, Her fame, yet she still damn'd to be a maid, Her spirits sink, her nerves are so unstrung, She weeps', if but a handsome thief is hung: By mercers, lacemen, mantua-makers press'd, But most for ready cash for play distress'd, Where can she turn? The 'squire must all reShe condescends to listen to his pray'r, And marries him at length in mere despair.

[pair,

But soon th' endearments of a husband cloy,
Her soul, ber frame incapable of joy:
She feels no transports in the bridal-bed,
Of which so oft sh' has heard, so much has read;
Then vex'd, that she should be condemn'd alone
To seek in vain this philosophic stone,
To abler tutors she resolves t' apply,
A prostitute from curiosity:

Hence men of ev'ry sort, and ev'ry size,
Impatient for Heav'n's cordial drop 2, she tries;
The fribbling beau, the rough unwieldy clown,
The ruddy templar newly on the town,
The Hibernian captain of gigantic make,
The brimful parson, and th' exhausted rake.

Some of the brightest eyes were at this time in tears for one Maclean, condemned for a robbery on the highway.

* The cordial drop Heav'n in our cup has thrown, To make the nauseous draught of life go down. Roch.

But still malignant fate her wish denies, Cards yield superior joys, to cards she flies; All night from rout to rout her chairmen run, Again she plays, and is again undone.

Behold her now in ruin's frightful jaws! Bonds, judgments, executions, ope their paws; Seize jewels, furniture, and plate, nor spare The gilded chariot, or the tassel'd chair; For lonely seat she 's forc'd to quit the town, And Tubbs 3 conveys the wretched exile down.

Now rumbling o'er the stones of Tyburn-road,
Ne'er press'd with a more griev'd or guilty load,
She bids adieu to all the well-known streets,
And envies every cinder-wench she meets;
And now the dreaded country first appears,
With sighs unfeign'd the dying noise she hears
Of distant coaches fainter by degrees,
Then starts, and trembles at the sight of trees.
Silent and sullen like some captive queen,
She's drawn along unwilling to be seen,
Until at length appears the ruin'd hall
Within the grass green moat and ivy'd wall,
The doleful prison, where for ever she,
But not, alas! her griefs, must bury'd be.

Her coach the curate and the tradesmen meet,
Great-coated tenants her arrival greet,
And boys with stubble bonfires light the street,
While bells her ears with tongues discordant gratė,
Types of the nuptial ties they celebrate:
But no rejoicings can unbend her brow,
Nor deigns she to return one awkward bow,
But bounces in, disdaining once to speak,
And wipes the trickling tear from off her cheek.
Now see her in the sad decline of life,

A peevish mistress and a sulky wife;
Her nerves unbrac'd, her faded cheek grown pale
With many a real, many a fancy'd ail;
Of cards, admirers, equipage bereft,
Her insolence and title only left;
Severely humbled to her one-horse chair,
And the low pastimes of a country fair:
Too wretched to endure one lonely day,
Too proud one friendly visit to repay,

Too indolent to read, too criminal to pray.
At length half dead, half mad, and quite confin'd,
Shunning, and shunn'd by all of human kind,
Even robb'd of the last comfort of her life,
lusulting the poor curate's callous wife,
Pride, disappointed pride, now stops her breath,
And with true scorpion rage she stings herself to
death.

3 A person well known for supplying people of quality with hired equipages.