Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands, Belies his features, nay, extends his hands;That livelong wig, which Gorgon's self might own, Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.
Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend!
And see what comfort it affords our end.
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw, With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, Great Villiers lies--alas! how changed from him, That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!--Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love;Or just as gay, at council, in a ring Of mimic'd statesmen and their merry king.
No wit to flatter left of all his store!
No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends.
His grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee, And well (he thought) advised him, "Live like me."As well his grace replied, "Like you, Sir John?
That I can do, when all I have is gone."
Resolve me, Reason, which of these is worse, Want with a full, or with an empty purse?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confessed, Arise, and tell me, was thy death more blessed?
Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall, For very want; he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger's power, For very want; he could not pay a dower.
A few grey hairs his reverend temples crowned, 'Twas very want that sold them for two pound.
What even denied a cordial at his end, Banished the doctor, and expelled the friend?
What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Yet numbers feel the want of what he had!
Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim, "Virtue! and wealth! what are ye but a name!"Say, for such worth are other worlds prepared?
Or are they both in this their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tired--I'll tell a tale. B. Agreed.
P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies;There dwelt a citizen of sober 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 solemnised the Lord's;Constant at church, and Change; his gains were sure, His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, And longed to tempt him like good Job of old:
But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Roused 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 shipwrecks 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 smoked upon the board.
Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away:
He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit.
Some scruple rose, but thus he eased his thought, "I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat;Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice--And am so clear, too, of all other vice."The Tempter saw his time; the work he plied;Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, 'Till all the demon makes his full descent In one abundant shower of cent. per cent., Sinks deep within him, and possesses 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 called a blessing, now was wit, And God's good Providence, a lucky hit.
Things change their titles, as our manners turn;His counting-house employed the Sunday morn;Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life), But duly sent his family and wife.
There (so the devil ordained) one Christmas tide My good old lady catched a cold and died.
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 c*ck**ds in St. James's air;First, for his son a gay commission buys, Who drinks and fights, and in a duel dies;His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife;She bears a coronet and ---- for life.
In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains.
My lady falls to play; so bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues;The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs;Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thine 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.
EPISTLE IV.
TO RICHARD BOYLE, EARL OF BURLINGTON.
ARGUMENT.
OF THE USE OF RICHES.
