Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend!

And see what comfort it affords our end.

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repaired 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 changed from him, That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!- Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love; Or just as gay, at council, in a ring Of mimic'd 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) advised him, "Live like me."

As well his grace replied, "Like you, Sir John?

That I can do, when all I have is gone."

Resolve me, Reason, which of these is worse, Want with a full, or with an empty purse?

Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confessed, Arise, and tell me, was thy death more blessed?

Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall, For very want; he could not build a wall.

His only daughter in a stranger's power, For very want; he could not pay a dower.

A few grey hairs his reverend temples crowned, 'Twas very want that sold them for two pound.

What even denied a cordial at his end, Banished the doctor, and expelled 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 prepared?

Or are they both in this their own reward?

A knotty point! to which we now proceed.

But you are tired-I'll tell a tale. B. Agreed.

P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; There dwelt a citizen of sober fame, A plain good man, and Balaam was his name; Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth; His word would pa.s.s for more than he was worth.

One solid dish his week-day meal affords, An added pudding solemnised the Lord's; Constant at church, and Change; his gains were sure, His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, And longed to tempt him like good Job of old: But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor.

Roused by the prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky sh.o.r.e.

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 smoked upon the board.

Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away: He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit.

Some scruple rose, but thus he eased 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 every side, 'Till all the demon makes his full descent In one abundant shower 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 called a blessing, now was wit, And G.o.d's good Providence, a lucky hit.

Things change their t.i.tles, as our manners turn; His counting-house employed the Sunday morn; Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life), But duly sent his family and wife.

There (so the devil ordained) one Christmas tide My good old lady catched 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 c*ck**ds in St. James's air; First, for his son a gay commission buys, Who drinks and fights, and in a duel dies; His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife; She bears a coronet and ---- 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 harangues; The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs; Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thine own, His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown: The Devil and the King divide the prize, And sad Sir Balaam curses G.o.d and dies.

EPISTLE IV. TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF BURLINGTON.

ARGUMENT.

Of the Use of Riches.

The Vanity of Expense in people of Wealth and Quality. The abuse of the word Taste, v.13. That the first Principle and foundation, in this as in everything else, is Good Sense, v.40. The chief Proof of it is to follow Nature even in works of mere Luxury and Elegance. Instanced in Architecture and Gardening, where all must be adapted to the Genius and Use of the Place, and the Beauties not forced into it, but resulting from it, v.50. How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings, for want of this true Foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all: and the best Examples and Rules will but be perverted into something burdensome or ridiculous, v.65, etc., to 92. A description of the false Taste of Magnificence; the first grand Error of which is to imagine that Greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the Proportion and Harmony of the whole, v.97, and the second, either in joining together Parts incoherent, or too minutely resembling, or in the Repet.i.tion of the same too frequently, v.105, etc. A word or two of false Taste in Books, in Music, in Painting, even in Preaching and Prayer, and lastly in Entertainments, v.133, etc. Yet Providence is justified in giving Wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind, v.169 (recurring to what is laid down in the first book, Ep. ii., and in the Epistle preceding this, v.159, etc.). What are the proper objects of Magnificence, and a proper field for the Expense of Great Men, v.177, etc., and finally, the Great and Public Works which become a Prince, v.191 to the end.

'Tis strange, the miser should his cares employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy: Is it less strange, the prodigal should waste His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste?

Not 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 G.o.ds, and coins; Rare monkish ma.n.u.scripts for Hearne alone, And books for Mead, and b.u.t.terflies for Sloane.

Think we all these are for himself? no more Than his fine wife, alas! or finer w***e.

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted?

Only to show, how many tastes he wanted.

What brought Sir Visto's ill-got wealth to waste?

Some demon whispered, "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 expense, That never c.o.xcomb reached magnificence!

You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of use.

Yet shall, my lord, your just, your n.o.ble 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; Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all On some patched dog-hole eked with ends of wall; Then clap four slices of pilaster on 't, That, laced with bits of rustic, makes a front Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar, Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door; Conscious they act a true Palladian part, And, if they starve, they starve by rules of art.

Oft have you hinted to your brother peer A certain truth, which many buy too dear: Something there is more needful than expense, And something previous even to taste-'tis sense.

Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven: A light, which in yourself you must perceive: Jones and Le Notre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the column, or the arch to bend, To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot; In all, let Nature never be forgot.

But treat the G.o.ddess like a modest fair, Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare; Let not each beauty everywhere be spied, Where half the skill is decently to hide.

He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.

Consult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters or to rise or fall, Or helps the ambitious hill the heavens to scale, Or scoops in circling theatres the vale; Calls in the country, catches opening glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; Now breaks, or now directs, the intending lines; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

Still follow sense, of every art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start even from difficulty, strike from chance; Nature shall join you; Time shall make it grow A work to wonder at-perhaps a Stowe.

Without it, proud Versailles, thy glory falls; And Nero's terraces desert their walls: The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make; Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake: Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, You'll wish your hill or sheltered seat again.

Even in an ornament its place remark, Nor in a hermitage set Dr. Clarke.

Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete: His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet; The wood supports the plain, the parts unite, And strength of shade contends with strength of light; A waving glow the bloomy beds display, Blushing in bright diversities of day, With silver-quivering rills meandered o'er- Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more; Tired of the scene parterres and fountains yield, He finds at last he better likes a field.

Through his young woods how pleased Sabinus strayed, Or sat delighted in the thickening shade, With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Or see the stretching branches long to meet!

His son's fine taste an opener vista loves, Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves; One boundless green, or flourished carpet views, With all the mournful family of yews; The thriving plants, ign.o.ble broomsticks made, Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade.

At Timon's villa let us pa.s.s a day, Where all cry out, "What sums are thrown away!"

So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air, Soft and agreeable come never there.

Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught As brings all Brobdingnag before your thought.

To compa.s.s this, his building is a town, His pond an ocean, his parterre a down: Who but must laugh, the master when he sees, A puny insect, shivering at a breeze!

Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!

The whole, a laboured quarry above ground; Two Cupids squirt before; a lake behind Improves the keenness of the northern wind.

His gardens next your admiration call, On every side you look, behold the wall!

No pleasing intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other.

The suffering eye inverted Nature sees, Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees With here a fountain, never to be played; And there a summer-house, that knows no shade; Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers; There gladiators fight or die in flowers; Unwatered see the drooping sea-horse mourn, And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.

My lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen: But soft-by regular approach-not yet- First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; And when up ten steep slopes you've dragged your thighs, Just at his study door he'll bless your eyes.

His study! with what authors is it stored?

In books, not authors, curious is my lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round: These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound, Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good For all his lordship knows, but they are wood.

For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look; These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear, That summons you to all the pride of prayer; Light quirks of music, broken and uneven, Make the soul dance upon a jig to heaven.

On painted ceilings you devoutly stare, Where sprawl the saints of Verrio or Laguerre, On gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, And bring all Paradise before your eye.

To rest, the cushion and soft Dean invite, Who never mentions h.e.l.l to ears polite.

But hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; A hundred footsteps sc.r.a.pe the marble hall: The rich buffet well-coloured serpents grace, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face.

Is this a dinner? this a genial room?

No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb.

A solemn sacrifice, performed in state, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat.

So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there.

Between each act the trembling salvers ring, From soup to sweet-wine, and G.o.d bless the King.

In plenty starving, tantalised in state, And complaisantly helped to all I hate, Treated, caressed, and tired, I take my leave, Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve; I curse such lavish cost and little skill, And swear no day was ever past so ill.

Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread The labourer bears; what his hard heart denies His charitable vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden ear Embrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvests bury all his pride has planned, And laughing Ceres re-a.s.sume the land.

Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil?

Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle.

'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense, And splendour borrows all her rays from sense.

His father's acres who enjoys in peace, Or makes his neighbours glad, if he increase: Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil, Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil; Whose ample lawns are not ashamed to feed The milky heifer and deserving steed; Whose rising forests, not for pride or show, But future buildings, future navies, grow: Let his plantations stretch from down to down, First shade a country, and then raise a town.

You too proceed! make falling arts your care, Erect new wonders, and the old repair; Jones and Palladio to themselves restore, And be whate'er Vitruvius was before: 'Till kings call forth the ideas of your mind (Proud to accomplish what such hands denied) Bid harbours open, public ways extend, Bid temples, worthier of the G.o.d, ascend; Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain, The mole projected break the roaring main; Back to his bounds their subject sea command, And roll obedient rivers through the land: These honours peace to happy Britain brings, These are imperial works, and worthy kings.

EPISTLE V. TO MR. ADDISON.