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VILLERS, DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

IN the worst inn's worft room, with mat half

hung, The floors of plaifter, and the walls of dang, On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw, With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow ftrove with dirty red, Great Villers lies--alas ! how chang'd from him, That life of Pleasure, and that soul of Whim! Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcové, The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury and love; Or just as gay, at Council, in a ring Of mimick'd Statesmen, and their merry King. No Wit to flatter, left of all his store ! No Fool to laugh at, which he valu’d more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame; this lord of useless thousands ends.

IBID. p. 155.

SIR BALA A M. WHÉRE London's column, pointing at the skies Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; There dwelt a Citizen of fober fame, A plain good man, and Balaam was his name ; Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth; His word would pass for more than he was worth. One solid dish his week-day meal affords, An added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's:

Constant

Constant at Church, and 'Change; his gains were

fure, His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.

The Dev'I was piqu’d such saintship to behold, And long'd to tempt him, like good job of old : But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor.

Rous'd 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 fhipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

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 smoak'd upon the board..

Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor ftole a Gem away: He pledg'd it to the Knight, the Knight had wity. So kept the Di’mond, and the rogue was bit.. Şome scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, “ I'll now give fixpence where I gave a groat; " Where once I went to church, I'll now go

66 twice ". And am so clear too of all other. vice.”

The

The Tempter saw his time; the work he ply'd; Stocks and Subscriptions pour on ev'ry fide, 'Till all the Dæmon makes his full descent In one abundant show'r of Cent per Cent, Sinks deep within him, and poffefies 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 call'd a Blefling, now was Wit, And God's good Providence, a lucky Hit. Things change their titles, as our manners turn: His Compting-house employ'd the Sunday-morn: Seldom at Church ('t was such a busy life) But duly sent his family and wife. There (so the Devil ordain’d) one Christmas-tide My good old Lady catch'd a cold, and dy'd.

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 cuckolds of St. James's air : First, for his Son a gay Commission buys, * Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies : His Daughter flaunts a Viscount's tawdry wife; She bears a Coronet and P-x for life. In Britain's Senate he a seat obtains, And one more Pensioner St. Stephen gains. My Lady falls to play : fo bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France ;

The

The House impeach him, Coningsby harangues ;
The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs;
Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown:
The Devil and the King divide the prize,
And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.

IBID. P. 157

TASTE 'TIS strange the Mifer should his Cares employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy: Is it less strange, the Prodigal Mould waste His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats ; Artists must choofe his Pictures, Music, Meats : He buys for Topham, Drawings and Designs, For Pembroke, Statues, dirty Gods, and Coins ; Rare monkish Manuscripts for Hearne alone, And Books for Mead, and Butterflies for Sloane. Think we all these are for himself? no more Than his fine Wife, alas ! or finer Whore.

For what has Virro painted, built, and planted ? Only to Thew how many tastes he wanted. What brought Sir Vifto's ill-got wealth to wafte? Some Dæmon whisper'd Vifo! have a Taste." Heav'n visits with a Taste the wealthy Fool, And needs no Rod but Ripley with a Rule. See! sportive Fate, to punish aukward pride, Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a Guide:

A

A ftanding sermon, at each year's expence,
That never Coxcomb reach'd magnificence !

You thew us, Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of Use. Yet shall (my Lord) your just, your noble rules, Fill half the land with imitating Fools; Who random drawings from your sheets shall take, And of one beauty many blunders make; Load fome vain Church with old Theatric state, Turn Arcs of triumph to a Garden-gate; Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all On some patch'd dog-hole ek'd with ends of wall; "Then clap four slices of Pilaster on’t, That, lac'd 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 the 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 Expence, And something previous e'en to Talte,-'tis Sense: Good Sense, which only is the gift of Heav'n, And, though no Science, fairly worth the seven: A Light, which in yourself you must perceive ; Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the Column, or the Arch to bend,

Te

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