Or fancy's beam enlarges, multiplies, Contracts, inverts, and gives ten thousand dyes.

Nor will life's stream for observation stay, It hurries all too fast to mark their way: In vain sedate reflections we would make, When half our knowledge we must s.n.a.t.c.h, not take.

Oft, in the pa.s.sion's wild rotation tost, Our spring of action to ourselves is lost: Tired, not determined, to the last we yield, And what comes then is master of the field.

As the last image of that troubled heap, When sense subsides, and fancy sports in sleep (Though past 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, some are open, and to all men known; Others so very close, they're hid from none (So darkness strikes the sense no less than light), Thus gracious Chandos is beloved at sight; And every child hates Shylock, though his soul Still sits at squat, and peeps not from its hole.

At half mankind when generous Manly raves, All know 'tis virtue, for he thinks them knaves: When universal homage Umbra pays, All see 'tis vice, and itch of vulgar praise.

When flattery glares, all hate it in a queen, While one there is who charms us with his spleen.

But these plain characters we rarely find; Though strong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind: Or puzzling contraries confound the whole; Or affectations quite reverse the soul.

The dull, flat falsehood serves for policy; And in the cunning, truth itself's a lie: Unthought-of frailties cheat us in the wise; The fool lies hid in inconsistencies.

See the same man, in vigour, in the gout; Alone, in company; in place, or out; Early at business, and at hazard late; Mad at a fox-chase, wise at a debate; Drunk at a borough, civil at a ball; Friendly at Hackney, faithless 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 venison to a saint without.

Who would not praise Patritio's high desert, His hand unstained, his uncorrupted heart, His comprehensive head! all interests weighed, All Europe saved, yet Britain not betrayed.

He thanks you not, his pride is in piquet, Newmarket-fame, and judgment at a bet.

What made (say Montagne, or more sage Charron) Otho a warrior, Cromwell a buffoon?

A perjured prince a leaden saint revere, A G.o.dless regent tremble at a star?

The throne a bigot keep, a genius quit, Faithless through piety, and duped through wit?

Europe a woman, child, or dotard rule, And just her wisest monarch made a fool?

Know, G.o.d and Nature only are the same: In man, the judgment shoots at flying game, A bird of pa.s.sage! gone as soon as found, Now in the moon, perhaps, now under ground.

In vain the sage, with retrospective eye, Would from the apparent what conclude the why, Infer the motive from the deed, and show, That what we chanced was what we meant to do.

Behold! if fortune or a mistress frowns, Some plunge in business, others shave their crowns: To ease the soul of one oppressive weight, This quits an empire, that embroils a state: The same adust complexion has impelled Charles to the convent, Philip to the field.

Not always actions show the man: we find Who does a kindness, is not therefore kind; Perhaps prosperity becalmed his breast, Perhaps the wind just shifted from the east: Not therefore humble he who seeks retreat, Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the great: Who combats bravely is not therefore brave, He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave: Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise, His pride in reasoning, not in acting lies.

But grant that actions best discover man; Take the most strong, and sort them as you can.

The few that glare each character must mark; You balance not the many in the dark.

What will you do with such as disagree?

Suppress them, or miscall them policy?

Must then at once (the character to save) The plain rough hero turn a crafty knave?

Alas! in truth the man but changed his mind, Perhaps was sick, in love, or had not dined.

Ask why from Britain Caesar would retreat?

Caesar himself might whisper he was beat.

Why risk the world's great empire for a punk?

Caesar perhaps might answer he was drunk.

But, sage historians! 'tis your task to prove One action conduct; one, heroic love.

'Tis from high life high characters are drawn; A saint in c.r.a.pe is twice a saint in lawn; A judge is just, a chancellor juster still; A gownman, learn'd; a bishop, what you will; Wise, if a minister; but, if a king, More wise, more learned, more just, more everything.

Court-virtues bear, like gems, the highest rate, Born where Heaven's influence scarce can penetrate: In life's low vale, the soil the virtues like, They please as beauties, here as wonders strike.

Though the same sun with all-diffusive rays Blush in the rose, and in the diamond blaze, We prize the stronger effort of his power, And justly set the gem above the flower.

'Tis education forms the common mind; Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined.

Boastful and rough, your first son is a squire; The next a tradesman, meek, and much a liar; Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave; Will sneaks a scrivener, an exceeding knave: Is he a Churchman? then he's fond of power: } A Quaker? sly: A Presbyterian? sour: } A smart Freethinker? all things in an hour. } Ask men's opinions: Scoto now shall tell How trade increases, and the world goes well; Strike off his pension, by the setting sun, And Britain, if not Europe, is undone.

That gay Freethinker, a fine talker once, What turns him now a stupid silent dunce?

Some G.o.d, or spirit he has lately found: Or chanced to meet a minister that frowned.

Judge we by Nature? habit can efface, Interest o'ercome, or policy take place: By actions? those uncertainty divides: By pa.s.sions? these dissimulation 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 pa.s.sion: there, alone, The wild are constant, and the cunning known; The fool consistent, and the false sincere; Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here.

This clue once found, unravels all the rest, The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest.

Wharton, the scorn and wonder of our days, Whose ruling pa.s.sion was the l.u.s.t of praise: Born with whate'er could win it from the wise, Women and fools must like him or he dies; Though wondering senates hung on all he spoke, The club must hail him master of the joke.

Shall parts so various aim at nothing new!

He'll shine a Tully and a Wilmot too.

Then turns repentant, and his G.o.d adores With the same spirit that he drinks and wh***s; 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 honest heart; Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt; And most contemptible, to shun contempt: His pa.s.sion still, to covet general praise, His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways; A constant bounty which no friend has made; An angel tongue, which no man can persuade; A fool, with more of wit than half mankind, Too rash for thought, for action too refined: A tyrant to the wife his heart approves; A rebel to the very king he loves; He dies, sad outcast of each church and state, And, harder still! flagitious, yet not great.

Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule?

'Twas all for fear the knaves should call him fool.

Nature well known, no prodigies remain, Comets are regular, and Wharton plain.

Yet, in this search, the wisest may mistake, If second qualities for first they take.

When Catiline by rapine swelled his store; When Caesar made a n.o.ble dame a wh***; In this the l.u.s.t, in that the avarice Were means, not ends; ambition was the vice.

That very Caesar, born in Scipio's days, Had aimed, like him, by chast.i.ty at praise.

Lucullus, when frugality could charm, Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm.

In vain the observer eyes the builder's toil, But quite mistakes the scaffold for the pile.

In this one pa.s.sion man can strength enjoy, As fits give vigour, just when they destroy.

Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand, Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand.

Consistent in our follies and our sins, Here honest Nature ends as she begins.

Old politicians chew on wisdom past, And totter on in business to the last; As weak, as earnest, and as gravely out, As sober Lanesb'row dancing in the gout.

Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace Has made the father of a nameless race, Shoved from the wall perhaps, or rudely pressed By his own son, that pa.s.ses by unblessed: Still to his haunt he crawls on knocking knees, And envies every sparrow that he sees.

A salmon's belly, h.e.l.luo, was thy fate; The doctor called, declares all help too late: "Mercy!" cries h.e.l.luo, "mercy on my soul!

Is there no hope!-Alas!-then bring the jowl."

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

"Odious! in woollen! 'twould a saint provoke"

(Were the last words that poor Narcissa spoke); "No, let a charming chintz, and Brussels lace Wrap my cold limbs, and shade my lifeless face: One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead- And-Betty-give this cheek a little red."

The courtier smooth, who forty years had shined An humble servant to all human kind, Just brought out this, when scarce his tongue could stir, "If-where I'm going-I could serve you, sir?"

"I give and I devise" (old Euclio said, And sighed) "my lands and tenements to Ned."

"Your money, sir?" "My money, sir? what, all?

Why-if I must" (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 pa.s.sion strong in death: Such in those moments as in all the past, "Oh, save my country, Heaven!" shall be your last.

EPISTLE II. TO A LADY.

Of the Characters of Women.

Nothing so true as what you once let fall, "Most women have no characters at all."

Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear, And best distinguished by black, brown, or fair.

How many pictures of one nymph we view, All how unlike each other, all how true!

Arcadia's countess, here, in ermined pride, Is, there, Pastora by a fountain side.

Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, And there, a naked Leda with a swan.

Let then the fair one beautifully cry, In Magdalen's loose hair, and lifted eye, Or dressed in smiles of sweet Cecilia shine, With simpering angels, palms, and harps divine; Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

Come then, the colours and the ground prepare!

Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air; Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.

Rufa, whose eye, quick-glancing o'er the park Attracts each light gay meteor of a spark, Agrees as ill with Rufa studying Locke, As Sappho's diamonds with her dirty smock; Or Sappho at her toilet's greasy task, With Sappho fragrant at an evening masque: So morning insects that in muck begun, Shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting sun.

How soft is Silia! fearful to offend; The frail one's advocate, the weak one's friend: To her, Calista proved her conduct nice; And good Simplicius asks of her advice.

Sudden, she storms! she raves! You tip the wink, But spare your censure; Silia does not drink.

All eyes may see from what the change arose, All eyes may see-a pimple on her nose.

Papillia, wedded to her am'rous spark, Sighs for the shades-"How charming is a park!"

A park is purchased, but the fair he sees All bathed in tears-"Oh, odious, odious trees!"

Ladies, like variegated tulips show; 'Tis to their changes half their charms we owe; Fine by defect, and delicately weak, Their happy spots the nice admirer take, 'Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarmed, Awed without virtue, without beauty charmed; Her tongue bewitched as oddly as her eyes, Less wit than mimic, more a wit than wise; Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad; Yet ne'er so sure our pa.s.sion to create, As when she touched the brink of all we hate.

Narcissa's nature, tolerably mild, To make a wash, would hardly stew a child; Has even been proved to grant a lover's prayer, And paid a tradesman once to make him stare; Gave alms at Easter, in a Christian trim, And made a widow happy, for a whim.