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To swell the Terras, or to sink the Grot;
In all, let Nature never be forgot.
But treat the Goddess like a modest fair,
Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty ev'ry where be spy'd,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,
Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds,

Consult the Genius of the Place in all ; That tells the Waters or to rise or fall; Or helps th’ambitious Hill the heav'ns to scale, Or scoops in circling theatres the Vale; Calls in the country, catches op'ning glades, Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; Now breaks, or now directs, th’intending Lines ; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

IBID. p. 162.

AT Timon's Villa let us pass a day,
Where all cry out, “What sums are thrown away!"
So proud, lo grand; of that ftupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatness, with Timor, dwells in such a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compass this, his Building is a Town,
His Pond an Ocean, his Parterre a Down :
Who but must laugh, the Matter when he fees,
A puny infect, fhiv'ring at a breeze !


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Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around !
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground.
Two Cupids squirt before; a Lake behind
Improves the keenness of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call;
On ev'ry fide 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 suff'ring eye inverted Nature fees,
Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as Trees;
With here a Fountain, never to be play'd;
And there a Summer-house, that knows no shade:
Here Amphitrite fails through myrtle bow'rs ;
There Gladiators fight, or die in flow'rs :
Unwater'd see the drooping Sea-horse mourn ;
And swallows rooft in Nilus' dusty Urn.

My Lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen : But soft-by regular approach-not yetFirst through the length of yon hot Terrace sweat; And when up ten steep Slopes you've dragg'd your

thighs, Juft at his Study-door he'll bless your eyes.

His Study! with what Authors is it stor'd? 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 Vellom; 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 Pray'r. Light quirks of Music, broken and uneven, Make the foul dance upon a jig to Heaven. On painted Cielings you devoutly ftare, Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre; Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie, And bring all Paradise before your eye. To rest, the Cushion and soft Dean invite, Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.

But, hark! the chiming Clocks to Dinner

call; A hundred footfteps scrape the marble Hall : The rich Buffet well-colour'd 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 folemn Sacrifice, perform'd in ftate ; 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 A& the trembling salvers ring, From foup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King. In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state, And complaisantly help'd to all I hate;


Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curse such lavish cost, and little kill,
And swear no day was ever pait so ill.

Yet hence the Poor are cloath'd, the Hungry

fed ; Health to himself, and to his Infants bread, The Lab'rer bears. What his hard Heart denies, His charitable Vanity supplies.

BID. p. 165.

THE M E D A L. AMBITION figh'd : she found it vain to trust The faithless Column and the crumbling Buft: Huge Moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to

Thore, Their ruins perifh'd, and their place no more ! Convinc'd, the now contracts her vaft defign, And all her Triumphs fhrink into a Coin. A narrow orb each crouded Conquest keeps ; Beneath her Palm here fad Judea weeps : Now fcantier limits the proud Arch confine, And scarce are seen the proftrate Nile or Rhine ; A small Euphrates through the Piece is roll'd, And little Eagles wave their wings in gold.

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The Medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Thro’ climes and ages bears each form and name : In one short view subjected to our eye, Gods, Emp'rors, Heroes, Sages, Beauties, lie. With sharpen'd fight pale Antiquaries pore, Th'inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred ruft of twice ten hundred years ! To gain Pefcennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in extatic dreams. Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, Can tafte no pleasure fince his Shield was scour'd.; And Curio, restless by the Fair-one's fide, Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his Bride.


Is there a Parson much bemusd in beer,
A maudlin Poetess, or rhyming Peer,
A Clerk, foredoom'd his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza, when he should engross?
Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper,

With desp’rate charcoal round his darken'd walls?
All fly to Twit’nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the Laws,
Imputes to me and my damn'd works the cause :


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