Or even to crack live crawfish recommend; I'd never doubt at court to make a friend.

'Tis yet in vain, I own, to keep a pother About one vice, and fall into the other: Between excess and famine lies a mean; Plain, but not sordid; though not splendid, clean.

Avidien, or his wife (no matter which, For him you'll call a dog, and her a bitch) 50 Sell their presented partridges, and fruits, And humbly live on rabbits and on roots: One half-pint bottle serves them both to dine, And is at once their vinegar and wine.

But on some lucky day (as when they found A lost bank-bill, or heard their son was drown'd) At such a feast, old vinegar to spare, Is what two souls so generous cannot bear: Oil, though it stink, they drop by drop impart, 60 But souse the cabbage with a bounteous heart.

He knows to live, who keeps the middle state, And neither leans on this side, nor on that; Nor stops, for one bad cork, his butler's pay; Swears, like Albutius, a good cook away; Nor lets, like Naevius, every error pass, The musty wine, foul cloth, or greasy glass.

Now hear what blessings temperance can bring: (Thus said our friend, and what he said I sing) First health: the stomach (cramm'd from every dish, 70 A tomb of boil'd and roast, and flesh and fish, Where bile, and wind, and phlegm, and acid jar, And all the man is one intestine war) Remembers oft the school-boy's simple fare, The temperate sleeps, and spirits light as air.

How pale each worshipful and reverend guest Rise from a clergy or a city feast!

What life in all that ample body, say?

What heavenly particle inspires the clay?

The soul subsides, and wickedly inclines 80 To seem but mortal, even in sound divines.

On morning wings how active springs the mind That leaves the load of yesterday behind!

How easy every labour it pursues!

How coming to the poet every Muse!

Not but we may exceed some holy time, Or tired in search of truth, or search of rhyme; Ill health some just indulgence may engage, And more the sickness of long life, old age; For fainting age what cordial drop remains, 90 If our intemperate youth the vessel drains?

Our fathers praised rank ven'son. You suppose, Perhaps, young men! our fathers had no nose.

Not so: a buck was then a week's repast, And 'twas their point, I ween, to make it last; More pleased to keep it till their friends could come, Than eat the sweetest by themselves at home.

Why had not I in those good times my birth, Ere coxcomb-pies or coxcombs were on earth?

Unworthy he, the voice of fame to hear-- 100 That sweetest music to an honest ear-- (For, faith! Lord Fanny, you are in the wrong, The world's good word is better than a song,) Who has not learn'd, fresh sturgeon and ham-pie Are no rewards for want, and infamy!

When luxury has lick'd up all thy pelf, Cursed by thy neighbours, thy trustees, thyself, To friends, to fortune, to mankind a shame, Think how posterity will treat thy name; And buy a rope, that future times may tell 110 Thou hast at least bestow'd one penny well.

'Right,' cries his lordship, 'for a rogue in need To have a taste is insolence indeed: In me 'tis noble, suits my birth and state, My wealth unwieldy, and my heap too great.'

Then, like the sun, let bounty spread her ray, And shine that superfluity away.

Oh, impudence of wealth! with all thy store, How dar'st thou let one worthy man be poor?

Shall half the new-built churches round thee fall? 120 Make quays, build bridges, or repair Whitehall: Or to thy country let that heap be lent, As Marlbro's was, but not at five per cent.

Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her mind, Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind.

And who stands safest? tell me, is it he That spreads and swells in puff'd prosperity, Or, blest with little, whose preventing care In peace provides fit arms against a war?

Thus Bethel spoke, who always speaks his thought, 130 And always thinks the very thing he ought: His equal mind I copy what I can, And as I love, would imitate the man.

In South-sea days not happier, when surmised The lord of thousands, than if now excised; In forest planted by a father's hand, Than in five acres now of rented land.

Content with little, I can piddle here On broccoli and mutton, round the year; But ancient friends (though poor, or out of play) 140 That touch my bell, I cannot turn away.

'Tis true, no turbots dignify my boards, But gudgeons, flounders, what my Thames affords: To Hounslow Heath I point, and Bansted Down, Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own: From yon old walnut-tree a shower shall fall; And grapes, long lingering on my only wall, And figs from standard and espalier join; The devil is in you if you cannot dine: Then cheerful healths (your mistress shall have place) 150 And, what's more rare, a poet shall say grace.

Fortune not much of humbling me can boast; Though double tax'd, how little have I lost?

My life's amusements have been just the same, Before and after standing armies came.

My lands are sold, my father's house is gone; I'll hire another's; is not that my own, And yours, my friends? through whose free-opening gate None comes too early, none departs too late; (For I, who hold sage Homer's rule the best, 160 Welcome the coming, speed the going guest).

'Pray Heaven it last!' (cries Swift) 'as you go on; I wish to God this house had been your own: Pity to build, without a son or wife: Why, you'll enjoy it only all your life.'

Well, if the use be mine, can it concern one, Whether the name belong to Pope or Vernon?

What's property, dear Swift? You see it alter From you to me, from me to Peter Walter; Or, in a mortgage, prove a lawyer's share; 170 Or, in a jointure, vanish from the heir; Or in pure equity (the case not clear) The Chancery takes your rents for twenty year: At best, it falls to some ungracious son, Who cries, 'My father's damn'd, and all's my own.'

Shades, that to Bacon could retreat afford, Become the portion of a booby lord; And Helmsley, once proud Buckingham's[130] delight, Slides to a scrivener or a city knight.

Let lands and houses have what lords they will, 180 Let us be fix'd, and our own masters still.

THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE.

TO LORD BOLINGBROKE.

St John, whose love indulged my labours past, Matures my present, and shall bound my last!

Why will you break the Sabbath of my days?

Now sick alike of envy and of praise.

Public too long, ah, let me hide my age!

See, modest Cibber now has left the stage: Our generals now, retired to their estates, Hang their old trophies o'er the garden gates, In life's cool evening satiate of applause, Nor fond of bleeding, even in Brunswick's cause. 10

A voice there is, that whispers in my ear, ('Tis reason's voice, which sometimes one can hear) 'Friend Pope! be prudent, let your Muse take breath, And never gallop Pegasus to death; Lest, still and stately, void of fire or force, You limp, like Blackmore on a Lord Mayor's horse.'

Farewell, then, verse, and love, and every toy, The rhymes and rattles of the man or boy; What right, what true, what fit we justly call, Let this be all my care--for this is all: 20 To lay this harvest up, and hoard with haste What every day will want, and most, the last.

But ask not, to what doctors I apply; Sworn to no master, of no sect am I: As drives the storm, at any door I knock: And house with Montaigne now, or now with Locke.

Sometimes a patriot, active in debate, Mix with the world, and battle for the state, Free as young Lyttelton, her cause pursue, Still true to virtue, and as warm as true: 30 Sometimes with Aristippus,[131] or St Paul, Indulge my candour, and grow all to all; Back to my native moderation slide, And win my way by yielding to the tide.

Long, as to him who works for debt, the day, Long as the night to her whose love's away, Long as the year's dull circle seems to run, When the brisk minor pants for twenty-one: So slow the unprofitable moments roll, That lock up all the functions of my soul; 40 That keep me from myself; and still delay Life's instant business to a future day: That task, which, as we follow, or despise, The eldest is a fool, the youngest wise.

Which done, the poorest can no wants endure; And which, not done, the richest must be poor.

Late as it is, I put myself to school, And feel some comfort not to be a fool.

Weak though I am of limb, and short of sight, Far from a lynx, and not a giant quite; 50 I'll do what Mead and Cheselden advise, To keep these limbs, and to preserve these eyes.

Not to go back, is somewhat to advance, And men must walk at least before they dance.

Say, does thy blood rebel, thy bosom move With wretched avarice, or as wretched love?

Know, there are words and spells which can control Between the fits this fever of the soul: Know, there are rhymes, which, fresh and fresh applied, Will cure the arrant'st puppy of his pride. 60 Be furious, envious, slothful, mad, or drunk, Slave to a wife, or vassal to a punk, A Switz, a High-Dutch, or a Low-Dutch bear; All that we ask is but a patient ear.

'Tis the first virtue, vices to abhor: And the first wisdom, to be fool no more.

But to the world no bugbear is so great, As want of figure, and a small estate.

To either India see the merchant fly, Scared at the spectre of pale poverty! 70 See him, with pains of body, pangs of soul, Burn through the tropic, freeze beneath the pole!

Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end, Nothing, to make philosophy thy friend?

To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires, And ease thy heart of all that it admires?

Here, Wisdom calls: 'Seek Virtue first, be bold!

As gold to silver, Virtue is to gold.'

There, London's voice: 'Get money, money still!

And then let virtue follow, if she will.' 80 This, this the saving doctrine, preach'd to all, From low St James's up to high St Paul; From him whose quill stands quiver'd at his ear, To him who notches sticks[132] at Westminster.

Barnard[133] in spirit, sense, and truth abounds; 'Pray then, what wants he?' Fourscore thousand pounds; A pension, or such harness for a slave As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have.

Barnard, thou art a cit, with all thy worth; But Bug and D----l, their Honours, and so forth. 90

Yet every child another song will sing, 'Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king.'

True, conscious honour is to feel no sin, He's arm'd without that's innocent within; Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass; Compared to this, a minister's an ass.

And say, to which shall our applause belong, This new court-jargon, or the good old song?

The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poictiers? 100 Who counsels best? who whispers, 'Be but great, With praise or infamy leave that to fate; Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace; If not, by any means get wealth and place.'

For what? to have a box where eunuchs sing, And foremost in the circle eye a king.

Or he, who bids thee face with steady view Proud fortune, and look shallow greatness through: And, while he bids thee, sets th' example too?