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To swell the Terras, or to sink the Grot;
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.
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around !
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,
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,
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.
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.
EPISTLE TO MR. ADDISON, p. 176.