With equal pleasure some attentive sit,
To sober reasoning, and to shallow wit.
What then? Because your audience most are fools,
Will you neglect all method, and all rules?
Or since the pulpit is a sacred place,
Where none dare contradict you to your face,
Will you presume to tell a thousand lies?
If so, we may forgive, but must despise.

42 In jingling Bev'ridge if I chance to see
One word of sense, I prize the rarity:
But if in Hooker, Sprat, or Tillotson,

A thought unworthy of themselves is shown,
I grieve to see it, but 'tis no surprise,
The greatest men are not at all times wise.
43 Sermons, like plays, some please us at the ear,
But never will a serious reading bear;
Some in the closet edify enough,

That from the pulpit seem'd but sorry stuff.
'Tis thus: there are, who by ill preaching spoil
Young's pointed sense, or Atterbury's style;
Whilst others by the force of eloquence, [sense.
Make that seem fine, which scarce is common
44 In every science, they that hope to rise,
Set great examples still before their eyes.
Young lawyers copy Murray where they can;
Physicians Mead, and surgeons Cheselden;
But all will preach, without the least pretence
To virtue, learning, art, or eloquence.
Why not? you cry: they plainly see, no doubt,
A priest may grow right-reverend without.

[sign'd

45 Preachers and preaching were at first deFor common benefit to all mankind. Public and private virtues they explain'd, To goodness courted, and from vice restrain'd: Love, peace, and union breath'd in each discourse, And their examples gave their precepts force. From these good men, the priests and all their Were honour'd with the title of divine. [line But soon their proud successors left this path, Forsook plain morals for dark points of faith; Till creeds on creeds the warring world inflam'd, And all mankind, by different priests, were damn'd. Some ask which is th' essential of a priest, Virtue or learning? what they ask's a jest: We daily see dull loads of reverend fat, Without pretence to either this or that. But who'd like Herring, or like Hoadly shine, Must with great learning real virtue join.

47 He who by preaching hopes to raise a name, To no small excellence directs his aim, On every noted preacher he must wait; The voice, the look, the action imitate: And when complete in style, and eloquence, Must then crown all with learning and good sense. But some with lazy pride disgrace the gown, And never preach one sermon of their own; 'Tis easier to transcribe than to compose, So all the week they eat, and drink, and doze. 46 As quacks with lying puffs the papers fill, Or hand their own praise in a pocky bill, Where empty boasts of much superior sense, Draw from the cheated crowd their idle pence; So the great Henley hires for half-a-crown A quack advertisement, to tell the town Of some strange point to be disputed on: Where all who love the science of debate, May hear themselves, or other coxcombs prate. 49 When dukes or noble lords a chaplain hire, They first of his capacities inquire. If stoutly qualify'd to drink and smoke, If not too nice to bear an impious joke, If tame enough to be the common jest, This is a chaplain to his lordship's taste.

50 If bards to Pope indifferent verses show, He is too honest not to tell them so. This is obscure, he cries, and this too rough, These trifling, or superfluous; strike them off, How useful every word from such a friend! But parsons are too proud their works to mend, And every fault with arrogance defend: Think them too sacred to be criticis'd, And rather choose to let them be despis'd.

51 He that is wise will not presume to laugh At priests, or church-affairs; it is not safe. Think there exists, and let it check your sport, That dreadful monster call'd a spiritual court. Into whose cruel jaws if once you fall, In vain, alas! in vain for aid you call; Clerks, proctors, priests, voracious round you ply, Like leeches sticking, till they've suck'd you dry.

"Twas thus the Muse her eager flight began,
Ardent to sing the poet and the man:
But truth in verse is clad too like a lie,
And you, at least, would think it flattery;
Hating the thought, I check my forward strain,
1 change my style, and thus begin again:

As when some student first with curious eye,
Thro' Nature's wond'rous frame attempts to pry;
His doubtful reason seeming faults surprise,
He asks if this be just? if that be wise?
Storms, tempests, earthquakes, virtue in distress,
And vice unpunish'd, with strange thoughts op-
Till thinking on, unclouded by degrees, [press:
His mind is open'd, fair is all he sees; [plight,
Storms, tempests, earthquakes, virtue's ragged
And vice's triumph, all are just and right:
Beauty is found, and order, and design,
And the whole scheme acknowledg'd all divine.
So when at first I view'd thy wond'rous plan,
Leading thro' all the winding maze of man;
Bewilder'd, weak, unable to pursue,

My pride would fain have laid the fault on you.
This false, that ill-exprest, this thought not good,
And all was wrong which I misunderstood.
But reading more attentive, soon I found,
The diction nervous, and the doctrine sound.
Saw man a part of that stupendous whole,
"Whose body Nature is, and God the soul."
Saw in the scale of things his middle state,
And all his powers adapted just to that.
Saw reason, passion, weakness, how of use,
How all to good, to happiness conduce.
Saw my own weakness, thy superior pow'r,
And still the more I read, admire the more.
This simile drawn out, I now began
To think of forming some design or plan,
To aid my Muse, and guide her wand'ring lay,
When sudden to my mind came honest Gay.
For form or method I no more contend,
But strive to copy that ingenious friend':
Like him to catch my thoughts just as they rose-
And thus I caught them, laughing at thy foes.

"Where are ye now"-ye critics, shall I say?
Or owls, who sicken at this god of day?
"What! mighty scribblers, will you let him go
Uncensur'd, unabus'd, unhonour'd so?
Step forth, some great distinguish'd daring dunce,
Write but one page, you silence him at once:
Write without fear; you will, you must succeed;
He cannot answer-for he will not read."

Here paus'd the Muse-alas! the jade is bit, She fain would copy Gay, but wants his wit. She paus'd, indeed-broke off as he had done, Wrote four unmeaning lines, and then went on: "Ye wits and fools; ye libertines and saints, Come pour upon the foe your joint complaints. First, you who oft, with wisdom too refin'd, Can censure and direct th' Eternal Mind, Ingenious wits, who modestly pretend This bungling frame, the universe, to mend; How can you bear, in your great reason's spight, To hear him prove, Whatever is, is right?"

Alas! how easy to confute the song!

If all is right, how came your heads so wrong?
"And come, ye solemn fools, a numerous band,
Who read, and read, but never understand,
Pronounce it nonsense-Can't you prove it too?
Good faith, my friends, it may be so-to you.

In his first Epistle.

"Come too, ye libertines, who lust for pow'r, Or wealth, or fame, or greatness, or a whore; All who true sensual happiness adhere to, And laugh him out of this old fashion'd virtue; Virtue, where he has whimsically plac'd Your only bliss-How odd is some men's taste!

"And come, ye rigid saints, with looks demure, Who boast yourselves right holy, just, and pure, Come, and with pious zeal the lines decry, Which give your proud hypocrisy the lie: Which own the best have failings, not a few; And prove the worst, sometimes, as good as you. "What! shall he taint such perfect souls with ill?

Shall sots not place their bliss in what they will?
Nor fools be fools? Nor wits sublime descend
In charity to Heav'n its works to mend? [plain,
Laughs he at these?-Tis monstrous. To be
I'd have ye write-He can but laugh again."
Here lifting up my head, surpris'd, I see
Close at my elbow, flattering Vanity.
From her soft whispers soon I found it came,
That I suppos'd myself not one of them.
Alas! how easily ourselves we sooth!

I fear, in justice, he must laugh at both.
For Vanity abash'd, up to my ear

Steps honest Truth, and these sharp words I hear;
"Forbear, vain bard, like them forbear thy lays;
Alike to Pope such censure and such praise.
Nor that can sink, nor this exalt his name,
Who owes to virtue, and himself, his fame."

ON GOOD AND ILL-NATURE.
TO MR. POPE.

IN virtue's cause to draw a daring pen,
Defeud the good, encounter wicked men:
Freely to praise the virtues of the few,
And boldly censure the degenerate crew:
To scorn, with equal justice, to deride [pride;
The poor man's worth, or soothe the great one's
All this was once good-nature thought, not ill;
Nay, some there are so odd to think so still.
Old-fashion'd souls! your men of modern taste,
Are with new virtue, new politeness grac❜d.
Good-nature now has chang'd her honest face,
For smiling flattery, compliment, grimace:
Fool grins at fool, each coxcomb owns his brother,
And thieves and sharpers compliment each other.
To such extent good-nature now is spread,
To be sincere is monstrously ill-bred:
An equal brow to all is now the vogue,

And complaisance goes round from rogue to rogue.
If this be good-'tis gloriously true,
The most ill-natur'd man alive, is you.

THE CAVE OF POPE.

A PROPHESY.

WHEN dark Oblivion, in her sable cloak

Shall wrap the names of heroes and of kings; And their high deeds, submitting to the stroke Of Time, shall fall amongst forgotten things:

The sum of Prato's wond'rous wisdom is,
This is not that, and therefore, that not this.
Oppos'd to him, but much the greater dunce,
Ish who throws all knowledge off at once.
The first, for every trifle wid contend;
But this has no opinions to defend.
In fire no heat, no sweetness in the rose;
The man's impos'd on by his very nose;
Nor fight nor colour charms his doubting eye,
The world's a dream, and all his senses lie.
He thinks, yet doubts if he's possess'd of thought;
Nay, even doubts his very pow'r to doubt.
Ask him if he's a man, or beast, or bird?
He cannot tell upon his honest word.
'Tis strange, so plain a point's so hard to prove;
I'll tell you what you are-a fool, by Jove.

Another class of disputants there are,
More nun'rous than the doubting tribe by far.
These are your wanderers, who from the point
Run wild in loose harangues, all out of joint.
Vagarious, and confute him if you can,
Will hold debate with any mortal man,
He roves from Genesis to Revelations,
And quite confounds you with divine quotations.
Should you affirm that Adam knew his wife,
And by that knowledge lost the tree of life;
He contradicts you, and in half an hour
Most plainly proves-pope Joan the scarlet whore,
Nor head nor tail his argument affords,
A jumbling, incoherent mass of words;
Most of them true, but so together tost
Without connection, that their sense is lost.

But leaving these to rove, and those to doubt, Another clan alarms us; face about: See, arin'd with grave authority they come, And with great names and numbers, strike us With these an errour ven'rable appears, [dumb. For having been believ'd three thousand years. Reason, nay common sense, to names must fall, And strength of argument's no strength at all. But on, my Muse, tho' multitudes oppose us, Alas! truth is not prov'd by counting noses: Nor fear, tho' ancient sages are subjoin'd; A lie's a lie, tho' told by all mankind. 'Tis true, I love the ancients-but what then? Plato and Aristotle were but men. I grant 'em wise-the wisest disagree, And therefore no sufficient guides for me. An errour, tho' by half the world espous'd, Is still an errour, and may be oppos'd; And truth, tho' much from mortal eyes conceal'd, Is still the truth, and may be more reveal'd. How foolish then will look your mighty wise, Should half their ipse dirits prove plain lies!

But on, my Muse, another tribe demands
Thy censure yet: nor should they 'scape thy
These are the passionate; who in dispute, [hands.
Demand submission, monarchs absolute.
Sole judges, in their own conceit, of wit,
They damn all those for fools that won't submit.
Si Testy (thwart sir Testy if you dare)
Swears there's inbabitants in every star.
If you presume to say this mayn't be true,
"You lie, sir, you're a fool and blockhead too."
What he asserts, if any disbelieve,

How folks can be so dull he can't conceive.
He knows he's right; he knows his judgment's
But men are so perverse they will not hear. [clear;
With him, Swift treads a dull trite beaten way;
In Young no wit, no humour smiles in Gay;

How, sir! not love roast beef! the king of meat!" "'Tis true indeed." "Indeed it is not true; I love it, sir, and you must love it too." "I can't upon my word."" Then you're a fool, And don't know what's good eating, by my soul. Not love roast beef!-come, come, sirs, fill bis Ill make him love it—Sir, G―d—ye, eat.” [plute, Sir Testy finding what it was they meant, Rose in a passion, and away he went.

RELIGION

A SIMILE.

I'm often drawn to make a stop,
And gaze upon a picture shop.
There have I seen (as who that tarries
Has not the same?) a head that varies;
And as in diff'rent views expos'd,
A diff'rent figure is disclos'd.
This way a fool's head is express'd,
Whose very count'nance is a jest;
Such as were formerly at court,
Kept to make wiser people sport.
Turn it another way, you'll have
A face ridiculously grave,
Something betwixt the fool and knave.
Again, but alter the position,
You're frighted with the apparition:
A hideous threatening Gorgon head
Appears, enough to fright the dead,
But place it in its proper light,
A lovely face accosts the sight;
Our eyes are charm'd with every feature,
We own the whole a beauteous creature.
Thus true religion fares. For when
By silly or designing men,
In false or foolish lights 't is plac'd,
'Tis made a bugbear, or a jest.
Here by a set of men 'tis thought
A scheme, by politicians wrought,
To strengthen and enforce the law,
And keep the vulgar more in awe:
And these, to show sublimer parts,
Cast all religion from their hearts;
Brand all its vot'ries as the tools
Of priests, and politicians' fools.

Some view it in another light,
Less wicked, but as foolish quite:
And these are such as blindly place it
In superstitions that disgrace it;
And think the essence of it lies
In ceremonious fooleries:
In points of faith and speculation,
Which tend to nothing but vexation.
With these it is a heinous crime
To cough or spit in sermon-time:

Tis worse to whistle on a Sunday,
Than cheat their neighbours on a Monday:
To dine without first saying grace, is
Enough to lose in Heaven their places;
But goodness, honesty and virtue,
Are what they've not the least regard to.
Others there are, and not a few,
Who place it in the bugbear view!
Think it consists in strange severities:
In fastings, weepings, and austerities.
False notions their weak minds possess,
Of faith, and grace, and holiness:
And as the Lord's of purer eyes
'T'han to behold iniquities:

They think, unless they're pure and spotless,
All their endeavours will be bootless;
And dreadful Furies in æternum,
In unconsuming fires will burn 'em.
But, oh how happy are the few,
Who place it in its proper view!
To these it shines divinely bright,
No clouds obscure its native light;
Truth stamps conviction in the mind,
All doubts and fears are left behind,

And peace and joy at once an entrance find.

PAIN AND PATIENCE.
AN ODE.

To scourge the riot and intemperate lust,

Or check the self-sufficient pride of man, Offended Heaven sent forth, in vengeance just, The dire inexorable fury, Pain;

Beneath whose griping hand, when she assails, The firmest spirits sink, the strongest reasoning fails.

Near to the confines of th' infernal den,

Deep in a hollow cave's profound recess, Her courts she holds; and to the sons of men Sends out the ministers of dire distress: Repentance, Shame, Despair, each acts her part; Whets the vindictive steel, and aggravates the

smart.

He whose luxurious palate daily rang'd

Earth, air, and ocean to supply his board; And to high-relish'd poisons madly chang'd The wholesome gifts of Nature's bounteous Lord;

Shall find sick nauseous surfeit taint his blood; And his abus'd pall'd stomach loathe the daintiest food.

The midnight reveller's intemperate bowl,

To rage and riot fires his furious brain; Remorse ensues, and agony of soul,

His future life condemn'd to ceaseless pain: Gout, fever, stone, to madness heighten grief; And temperance, call'd too late, affords him no relief.

He whose hot blood excites to dangerous joy, And headlong drives to seek the lewd embrace,

Startled at length, shall in his face descry

The mark indelible of foul disgrace:

Ulcers obscene corrode his aching boues;

The wild extravagant, whose thoughtless hand,
With lavish tasteless pride, commits expense;
Ruin'd, perceives his waning age demand

Sad reparation for his youth's offence:
Upbraiding riot points to follies past,
Presenting hollow want, fit successor to waste.

He too, whose high presuming health defies

Th' almighty hand of Heaven to pull him down;

Who slights the care and caution of the wise, Nor fears hot Summer's rage, nor Winter's frown:

Some trifling ail shall seize this mighty man; Blast all his boasted strength, rack every nerve with pain.

Thus Nature's God inflicts, by Nature's law,
On every crime its proper punishment;
Creating pain to keep mankind in awe,

And moral ills by physical prevent:

In wrath still gracious; claiming still our praise, Ev'n in those very groans our chastisements shall raise.

But lest the feeble heart of suffering man

Too low should sink beneath the keen distress; Lest fell Despair, in league with cruel Pain, Should drive him desperate in their wild ex

cess;

Kind Hope her daughter Patience sent from high, To ease the labouring breast, and wipe the trickling eye.

Hail, mild divinity! calm Patience, hail!

Soft-handed, meek-ey'd maid, yet whose firm breath,

And strong persuasive eloquence prevail

Against the rage of Pain, the fear of Death: Come, lenient Beauty, spread thy healing wing, And smooth my restless couch, whilst I thy praises sing.

In all this toilsome round of weary life,

Where dullness teases, or pert noise assails; Where trifling follies end in serious strife,

And money purchases where merit fails; What honest spirit would not rise in rage, If Patience lent not aid his passion to assuage? No state of life but must to Patience bow: [bill, The tradesman must have patience for his He must have patience who to law will go,

And should he lose his right, more patience Yea, to prevent or heal full many a strife, [still. How oft, how long must man have patience with

his wife?

But Heav'n grant patience to the wretched wight, [sail! Whom pills, and draughts, and bolusses asWhich he must swallow down with all his might; Ev'n then when health, and strength, and spirits fail.

Dear doctors, find some gentler ways to kill; [bill. Lighten this load of drugs, contract yon length of

When the dull, prating, loud, long-winded dame, Her tedious, vague, unmeaning tale'repeats; Perplex'd and wand'ring round and round her theme,

Till lost and puzzled, she all theme forgets;

and groans.

Good gods! who bears her out, must patience have