If then to all men Happiness was meant, God in Externals could not place content.

Fortune her gifts may variously dispote, And thefe be happy call'd, unhappy thofe ; But Heaven's juft balance equal will appear, While thofe are plac'd in hope, and thefe in fear: Not prefent good or ill, the joy or curfe; But future views of better, or of worle.

Oh, fons of earth! attempt ye ftill to rife, By mountains pil'd on mountains, to the fkies? Heaven fill with laughter the vain toil farveys, And buries madinen in the heaps they raife.

Know, all the good that individuals find, Or God and nature meant to mere mankind, Reafon's whole pleafure, all the joys of fenfe, Lie in three words, Health, Peace, and CompeBut health confifts with temperance alone; [tence: And peace, oh virtue! peace is all thy own. The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain; But thefe lefs tafte them, as they wore obtain. Say, in purfuit of profit or delight,

Who risk the moit, that take wrong means or right?

Of vice or virtue, whether bleft or curft,
Which meets contempt, or which compaffion firft?
Count all th' advantage prop'rous vice attains,
'Tis but what Virtue flies from, and difdains;
And grant the bad what happiness they wou'd,
One they must want, which is, to pafs for good.
Oh blind to truth, and God's whole fcheme below,
Who fancy blifs to vice, to virtue woe!
Who fees and follows that great scheme the best,
Best knows the bleffing, and will most be bleft.
But fools the good alone unhappy call,
For ills or accidents that chance to all.
See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the juft!
See godlike Turenne proftrate on the duft!
See Sydney bleeds amid the martial ftrife!
Was this their virtue, or contempt of life?
Say, was it virtue, more tho' Heaven ne'er gave,
Lamented Digby! funk thee to the grave?
Tell me, if virtue made the fon expire,
Why, full of days and honour, lives the fire?
Why drew Marseilles' good bifhop purer breath,
When Nature ficken'd, and each gale was death?
Or why fo long (in life if long can be)
Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me?

What makes all phyfical or moral ill?
There deviates nature, and here wanders will.
God fends not ill; if rightly understood,
Or partial ill is univerfal good,
Or change admits, or nature lets it fall,
Short, and but rare, till man improv'd it all.
We just as wifely might of Heaven complain,
That righteous Abel was destroy'd by Cain,
As that the virtuous fon is ftill at cafe
When his lewd father gave the dire disease.
Think we, like fome weak prince, th' Eternal
Caufe

Prone for his fav'rites to reverfe his laws?

Shall burning Etna, if a fage requires,
Forget to thunder, and recal her fires?
On air or fea new motions be impreft,
Oh blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast?

When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
Shall gravitation cease, if you go by ?
Or fome old temple, nodding to its fail,
For Chartres' head referve the hanging wall?
But ftill this world (fo fitted for the knave)
Contents us not. A better thall we have?
A kingdom of the just then let it be:
But first confider how thofe juft agree.
The good must merit God's peculiar care;
But who, but God, can tell us who they are?
One thinks, on Calvin Heaven's own Spirit fell;
Another deems him inftrument of hell."
If Calvin feel Heaven's bleffing, or its rod,
This cries there is, and that, there is no God.
What shocks one part will edify the reft,
Nor with one fyftem can they all be bleft.
The very beft will variously incline,
And what rewards your virtue, punish mine.
Whatever is, is right.-This world, 'tis true,
Was made for Cæfar-but for Titus too;
And which more bleft? who chain'd his country.
Or he whole virtue figh'd to lose a day? [fay,
"But fometimes virtue ftarves while vice is
"fed."

What then? Is the reward of virtue bread ?
That vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil;
The knave deferves it when he tills the foil.
The knave deferves it when he tempts the main,
Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain.
The good man may be weak, be indolent;
Nor is his claim to plenty, but content.
But grant him riches, your demand is o'er ?
No-hall the good want health, the good want
pow'r :"

66

Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies,
Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.
Nor will life's ftream for obfervation stay;
It hurries all too faft to mark their way:
In vain fedate reflections we would make,
When half our knowledge we muft fnatch, not
Oft in the paffions' wild rotation toft, [take.
Our fpring of action to ourselves is loft:
Tir'd, not determin'd, to the laft we yield;
And what comes then is mafter of the field.
As the last image of that troubled heap,
When fenfe fubfides, and fancy sports in fleep
(Tho' paft the recollection of the thought),
Becomes the stuff of which our dream is wrought:
Something as dim to our internal view,
Is thus, perhaps, the cause of most we do.
True, fome are open, and to all men known;
Others fo very close, they 're hid from none:
(So darkness ftrikes the fenfe no lefs than light)
Thus gracious Chandos is belov'd at fight;
And ev'ry child hates Shylock, tho' his foul
Still fits at fquat, and peeps not from its hole.
At half mankind when gen'rous Manly raves,
All know 'tis virtue, for he thinks them knaves.
When univerfal homage Umbra pays,
All fee 'tis vice, and itch of vulgar praife.
When flatt'ry glares, all hate it in a queen,
While one there is who charms us with his spleen.
But thefe plain characters we rarely find:
Tho' ftrong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind:
Or puzzling contraries confound the whole;
Or Affectations quite reverfe the foul.
The dull, flat falfehood ferves for policy:
And in the cunning, truth itself 's a lye:
Unthought-of frailties cheat us in the wife:
The fool lies hid in inconfiftencies.

See the fame man, in vigour, in the gout;
Alone, in company; in place, or out;
Early a bufinefs, and at hazard late;
Mad at a fox-chace, wife at a debate;
Drunk at a borough, civil at a ball;
Friendly at Hackney, faithlefs at Whitehall.

Catius is ever moral, ever grave, Thinks, who endures a knave is next a knave, Save just at dinner-then prefers, no doubt, A rogue with ven'fon to a faint without.

Who would not praise Patricio's high defert, His hand unftain'd, his uncorrupted heart, His comprchenfive head! all int'retts weigh'd, All Europe fav'd, yet Britain not betray'd. He thanks you not, his pride is in piquette, Newmarket-fame, and judgment at a bett. What made (fay Montaigne, or more fageCharron!) Otho a warrior, Cromwell a buffoon? A perjur'd prince a leaden faint revere, A godlefs regent tremble at a far? The throne a bigot keep, a genius quit, Faithlefs thro' piety, and dup'd thro' wit? Europe a woman, child, or dotard rule, And juft her wifeft monarch made a fool? Know, God and Nature only are the fame : In man, the judgment shoots at flying game; A bird of pallage! gone as foon as found; Now in the moon perhaps, now under ground.

In vain the fage, with retrospective eye, Would from th' apparent What conclude the Why, Infer the Motive from the Deed, and fhew That what we chanc'd was what we meant to do. Behold! if Fortune or a Mistress frowns, Some plunge in bufinefs, others fhave their crowns: To cafe the foul of one oppreffive weight, This quits an Empire, that embroils a State; The fame aduft complexion has impell'd Charles to the Convent, Philip to the Field. Not always Actions fhew the man; we find Who does a kindness, is not therefore kind : Perhaps Profperity becalm'd his breaft, Perhaps the Wind juft fhifted from the Eaft. Not therefore humble he who feeks retreat, Pride guides his fieps, and bids him hun the great. Who combats bravely is not therefore brave; He dreads a death-bed like the meanest flave: Who reafons wifely is not therefore wife; His pride in Reas'ning, not in Acting, lies.

But grant that actions beft difcover man; Take the moft ftrong, and fort them as you can. The few that glare, cach character must mark; You balance not the many in the dark. What will you do with fuch as difagree? Supprefs them, or mifcall them policy? Muft then at once (the character to fave) The plain rough Hero turn a crafty Knave? Alas! in truth the man but chang`d his mind; Perhaps was fick, in love, or had not din'd. Afk why from Britain Cæfar would retreat ? Cæfar himfelf might whifper, he was beat. Why risk the World's great empire for a Punk? Cafar perhaps might answer, he was drunk. But, fage hiftorians! 'tis your talk to prove, One action Conduct; one, heroic Love.

'Tis from high life high characters are drawn; A Saint in Crape is twice a Saint in Lawn: A Judge is juft, a Chanc'lor jufter ftill; A Gownman, learn'd; a Bifhop, what you will; Wife, if a Minifter; but, if a King, [thing. More wife, more learn'd, more juft, more ev'iy Court-Virtues bear, like Gems, the higheft rate, Born where Heav'n's influence fcarce can pene

trate:

In life's low vale, the foil the Virtues like,
They pleafe as beauties, here as wonders strike.
Tho' the fame fun with all diffufive rays
Blush in the Rofe, and in the Diamond blaze,
We prize the ftronger effort of his pow'r,
And justly fet the Gem above the Flow'r.
'Tis Education forms the common mind;
| Juft as the twig is bent, the tree 's inclin'd.
Boaftful and rough, your firft fon is a 'Squire;
The next a Tradefman, meck, and much a liar;
Tom ftruts a Soldier, open, bold, and brave;
Will freaks a Scriv'ner, an exceeding knave:
Is he a Churchman? then he's fond of pow'r;
A Quaker? fly; a Prefbyterian? four;
A fmart Free-thinker all things in an hour.

Afk men's Opinions: Scoto now shall tell
How Trade increafes, and the world goes well;
Strike off his Penfion, by the fetting fun,
And Britain, if not Europe, is undone.

That

That gay Free-thinker, a fine talker once,
What turns him now a stupid filent dunce ?
Some God, or Spirit, he has lately found:
Or chanc'd to meet a minifter that frown'd.
Judge we by Nature? Habit can efface,
Int'reft o'ercome, or Policy take place :
By Actions? thofe Uncertainty divides;
By Paffions? thefe Diffimulation hides:
Opinions? they still take a wider range:
Find, if you can, in what you cannot change.
Manners with Fortunes, Humours turn with
Climes,

Tenets with Books, and Principles with Times.
Search then the Ruling Patlion: There, alone,
The Wild are constant, and the Cunning known;
The Fool confiftent, and the Falfe fincere;
Priefts, Princes, Women, no diffemblers here.
This clue once found, unravels all the reft,
The profpect clears, and Wharton stands confeft.
Wharton, the fcorn and wonder of our days,
Whofe ruling paffion was the Luft of Praise :
Born with whate'er could win it from the wife,
Women and Fools muft like him, or he dies:
Tho' wond'ring Senates hung on all he spoke,
The Club muft hail him, Master of the Joke.
Shall parts fo various aim at nothing new?
He'll thine a Tully and a Wilmot too :
Then turns repentant, and his God adores
With the fame fpirit that he drinks and whores;
Enough if all around him but admire,

And now the Punk applaud, and now the Friar.
Thus with each gift of nature and of art,
And wanting nothing but an honeft heart;
Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt;
And most contemptible to fhun contempt;
His paffion ftill to covet gen'ral praise,
His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways;
A conftant bounty which no friend has made;
An Angel Tongue, which no man can perfuade;
A Fool, with more of Wit than half mankind,
Too rafh for Thought, for Action too refia'd:
A Tyrant to the wife his heart approves ;
A Rebel to the very king he loves;

He dies, fad outcaft of each church and state,
And, harder ftill! flagitious, yet not great.
Afk you why Wharton broke thro' ev'ry rule
'Twas all for fear the Knaves thould call him
Fool.

Nature well known, no prodigies remain,
Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.
Yet, in this fearch, the wifeft may mistake,
If fecond qualities for firft they take.
When Catiline by rapine fweli'd his store;
When Cæfar made a noble dame a whore;
In this the Luft, in that the Avarice
Were means, not ends; Ambition was the vice.
That very Cæfar, born in Scipio's days,
Had aim'd, like him, by Chaftity, at praife.
Lucullus, when frugality could charm,
Had roafted turnips in the Sabin farm.
In vain th' obferver eyes the builder's toil;
But quite mistakes the fcaffold for the pile.
In this one paflion man can ftrength enjoy,
As Fits give vigour just when they destroy.

Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand,
Yet tames not this; it fticks to our laft fand.
Confiftent in our follies and our fins,
Here honeft Nature ends as she begins.

Old Politicians chew on wifdom past,
And totter on in bufinefs to the laft;
As weak, as earneft; and as gravely out,
As fober Lanefb'row dancing in the gout.

Behold a rev'rend fire, whom want of grace
Has made the father of a nameless race,
Shov'd from the wall perhaps, or rudely prest
By his own fon, that paffes by unbleft:
Still to his wench he crawls on knocking knees,
And envies ev'ry sparrow that he fees.

A falmon's belly, Helluo, was thy fate ; The doctor call'd, declares all help too late : Mercy!" cries Helluo, mercy on my foul! "Is there no hope?-Alas! then bring the jowl."

The frugal crone, whom praying priests attend, Still ftrives to fave the hallow'd taper's end, Collects her breath as ebbing life retires, For one puff more, and in that puff expires.

"Odious! in woollen! 'twould a faint provoke, (Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke) "No, let a charming chintz and Bruffels lace

Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifelefs face: "One would not, fure, be frightful when one's "dead

" And-Betty-give this cheek a little red."

The courtier fmooth, who forty years had fhin'd An humble fervant to all human kind, Juft brought out this, when fcarce his tongue could ftir,

"If-where I'm going--I could serve you, Sir ?” "I give and I devife" (old Euclio faid, And figh'd)" my lands and tenements to Ned." Your money, Sir" My money, Sir, what all?

Why-if I muft—(then wept) I give it Paul.” The manor, Sir?-"The manor hold," he cried, "Not that, I cannot part with that"-and died.

And you, brave Cobham, to the latest breath, Shall feel your ruling paflion firong in death: Such in those moments as in all the past, "Oh fave my country, Heaven!" fhall be you laft.

EPISTLE II.

To a Lady.

Of the Characters of Women. NOTHING so true as what you once let fall, Moft women have no characters at all." Matter too foft a lasting mark to bear, And beft diftinguith'd by black, brown, or fair.

How many pictures of one nymph we view, All how unlike each other, all how true! Arcadia's counters, here, in ermin'd pride, Is there Paftora by a fountain fide. Here Fannia, leering on her own good man; And there a naked Leda with a fwan. Let then the fair one beautifully cry, In Magdalene's loofe hair and lifted eye, Or dreft in fmiles of fweet Cecilia fhine, With fimp ring angels, palms, and harps divine; Whether