which was the third, and almoft touched the heaven which he affected, is believed to have died with grief and difcontent, because he could not attain to the honest name of a king, and the old formality of a crown, though he had before exceeded the power by a wicked ufurpation. If he could have compassed that, he would perhaps have wanted fomething elfe that is neceflary to felicity, and pined away for want of the title of an emperor or a god. The reafon of this is, that greatnefs has no reality in nature, being a creature of the fancy, a notion that confifts only in relation and comparison: it is indeed an idol; but St. Paul teaches us," that an idol is nothing in the world." There is in truth no rifing or meridian of the fun, but only in refpect to feveral places: there is no right or left, no upper-hand in nature; every thing is little, and every thing is great, according as it is diverfely compared. There may be perhaps fome village in Scotland or Ireland, where I might be a great man: and in that cafe I fhould be like Cæfar (you would wonder how Cæfar and I should be like one another in any thing); and choose rather to be the first man of the village, than fecond at Rome. Our country is called Great Britany, in regard only of a leffer of the fame name; it would be but a ridiculous epithet for it, when we consider it together with the kingdom of China. That, too, is but a pitiful rood of ground, in comparison of the whole earth befides; and this whole globe of earth, which we account fo immense a body, is but one point or atom in relation to those numberless worlds that are scattered up and down in the infinite space of the sky which we behold.

The other many inconveniences of grandeur I have spoken of difperfedly in feveral chapters; and shall end this with an Ode of Horace, not exactly copied, but rudely imitated.

HORACE, LIB. III. ODE I.

"Odi profanum vulgus, &c."

HENCE, ye profane; I hate you all;
Both the great vulgar, and the fmall.

To virgin minds, which yet their native whitenefs hold,
Not yet difcolour'd with the love of gold

(That jaundice of the foul,

Which makes it look fo gilded and fo foul),

To you, ye very few, these truths I tell;

The Mufe infpires my fong; hark, and obferve it well.

We look on men, and wonder at fuch odds

'Twixt things that were the fame by birth;

We look on kings as giants of the earth,
These giants are but pigmies to the gods.
The humbleft bush and proudeft oak

Are but of equal proof against the thunder-ftroke.
Beauty, and ftrength, and wit, and wealth, and power,
Have their fhort flourishing hour:

And love to fee themselves, and fmile,

And joy in their pre-eminence awhile;

Ev'n fo in the fame land,

Poor weeds, rich corn, gay flowers, together stand;
Alas! death mows down all with an impartial hand

And all ye men, whom greatnefs does so please,
Ye feaft, I fear, like Damocles:

If ye your eyes could upwards move
(But ye, I fear, think nothing is above)

Ye would perceive by what a little thread
The fword ftill hangs over your head :
No tide of wine would drown your cares;
No mirth or mufic over-noife your fears:
The fear of death would you fo watchful keep,
As not t' admit the image of it, fleep.

Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces,
And yet fo humble too, as not to scorn
The meanest country cottages:

"His poppy grows among the corn."
The halcyon Sleep will never build his neft
In any ftormy breast.

'Tis not enough that he does find
Clouds and darkness in their mind;
Darkness but half his work will do:
'Tis not enough; he muft find quiet too.
The man, who in all wishes he does make,
Does only nature's counsel take,
That wife and happy man will never fear
The evil afpects of the year;

Nor tremble, though two comets fhould appear:
He does not look in almanacks, to fee

Whether he fortunate fhall be;

Let Mars and Saturn in the heavens conjoin,
And what they please against the world defign,
So Jupiter within him fhine.

If of your pleasures and defires no end be found,
God to your cares and fears will fet no bound.

What would content you? who can tell?
Ye fear fo much to lose what ye have got,
As if ye lik'd it well:

Ye strive for more, as if ye lik'd it not.

Go, level hills, and fill up feas,

Spare nought that may your wanton fancy please;
But, truft me, when you have done all this,
Much will be miffing ftill, and much will be amiss,

HERE are two forts of avarice: the one is but of a bastard kind, and that is,

the rapacious appetite of gain; not for its own fake, but for the pleasure of refunding it immediately through all the channels of pride and luxury: the other is the true kind, and properly fo called; which is a restlefs and unfatiable defire of riches, nor for any farther end or ufe, but only to hoard, and preferve, and perpetually increase them. The covetous man, of the first kind, is like a greedy oftrich, which devours any metal; but it is with an intent to feed upon it, and in effect, it makes a shift to digeft and excern it. The fecond is like the foolish chough, which loves to steal money only to hide it. The firft does much harm to mankind; and a little good too, to fome few: the fecond does good to none; no, not to himself. The first can make no excufe to God, or angels, or rational men, for his actions; the fecond can give no

on or colour, not to the devil himself, for what he does; he is a flave to Mammon
out wages.
The first makes a fhift to be beloved; ay, and envied too by fome
ple; the fecond is the universal object of hatred and contempt. There is no vice has
fo pelted with good fentences, and especially by the poets, who have pursued it
ftories, and fables, and allegories, and allufions; and moved, as we fay, every stone
ing at it: among all which, I do not remember a more fine and gentleman-like
ection, than that which was given it by one line of Ovid:

"Defunt luxuriæ multa, avaritiæ omnia.”

Much is wanting to luxury, all to avarice.

To which faying, I have a mind to add one member, and render it thus:
Poverty wants fome, luxury many, avarice all things.

Somebody fays of a virtuous and wife man "that having nothing, he has all :" this is
his antipode, who, having all things, yet has nothing. He is a guardian eunuch to
beloved gold:
"audivi eos amatores effe maximos, fed nil poteffe." They are the
teft lovers, but impotent to enjoy.

And, oh, what man's condition can be worse

Than his, whom plenty starves, and bleffings curse ;
The beggars but a common fate deplore,
The rich poor man's emphatically poor.

I wonder how it comes to pass, that there has never been any law made against him:
gainst him do I fay? I mean, for him: as there are public provifions made for all
ther madmen: it is very reasonable that the king fhould appoint fome perfons (and
think the courtiers would not be against this propofition) to manage his estate during
is life (for his heirs commonly need not that care): and out of it to make it their
nefs to fee, that he should not want alimony befitting his condition, which he could
ever get out of his own cruel fingers. We relieve idle vagrants, and counterfeit beg-
gars; but have no care at all of these really poor men, who are, methinks, to be re-
pectfully treated, in regard of their quality. I might be endless against them, but I
malmoft choaked with the fuper-abundance of the matter; too much plenty impo-
erhes me, as it does them. I will conclude this odious subject with part of Horace's
fr fatire, which take in his own familiar ftyle;

I admire, Mæcenas, how it comes to pafs,
That no man ever yet contented was,
Nor is, nor perhaps will be, with that state
In which his own choice plants him, or his fate.
Happy the merchant, the old foldier cries:
The merchant, beaten with tempeftuous skies,
Happy the foldier! one half-hour to thee
Gives fpeedy death, or glorious victory:
The lawyer, knockt up early from his rest
By reftlefs clients, calls the peafant bleft:
The peafant, when his labours ill fucceed,
Envies the mouth, which only talk does feed.
'Tis not (I think you'll fay) that I want store
Of inftances, if here I add no more;
They are enough to reach, at least a mile,
Beyond long orator Fabius's ftyle.

The author, well acquainted with the taste of his readers, would not disgust their delicacy by letting them know that this " fomebody" was St. Paul, [2 Cor. vi. 1o.]-Though the fenfe and express fion would have done honour to Plato. HURD..

VOL. II.

C &

1

But hold, ye, whom no fortune e'er endears,
Gentlemen, malecontents, and mutineers,
Who bounteous Jove so often cruel call,
Behold, Jove's now refolved to please you all.
Thou foldier, be a merchant: merchant, thou
A foldier be: and, lawyer to the plough.
Change all your ftations ftrait: why do they stay
The devil a man will change, now, when he may.
Were I in general Jove's abused cafe,

By Jove I'd cudgel this rebellious race:
But he's too good; be all, then, as ye were ;
However, make the beft of what ye are,
And in that state be cheerful and rejoice,
Which either was your fate, or was your choice.
No, they must labour yet, and fweat, and toil,
And very miferable be awhile;

But 'tis with a defign only to gain

What may their age with plenteous cafe maintain
The prudent pifmire does this leffon teach,
And induftry to lazy mankind preach:
The little drudge does trot about and sweat,
Nor does he ftrax: devour all he can get;
But in his temperate mouth carries it home
A ftock for winter, which he knows must come.
And, when the rolling world to creatures here
Turns up the deform'd wrong-fide of the year,
And fhuts him in, with ftorms, and cold, and wet,
He cheerfully does his past labours cat:
O, does he fo? your wife example, th' ant,
Does not, at all times, reft and plenty want;
But, weighing juftly a mortal ant's condition,
Divides his life 'twixt labour and fruition.
Thee, neither heat, nor ftorms, nor wet, nor cold,
From thy unnatural diligence can with-hold:
To th' Indies thou would't run, rather than fee
Another, though a friend, richer than thee.
Fond man! what good or beauty can be found
In heaps of treafure, buried under ground?
Which rather than diminish'd e'er to fee,
Thou would't thyfelf, too, buried with them be
And what's the difference? is 't not quite as bad
Never to ufe, as never to have had?

In thy vaft barns millions of quarters flore;
Thy belly, for all that, will hold no more

Than mine does. Every baker makes much bread:
What then? He's with no more, than others, fed.
Do you within the bounds of nature live,

And to augment your own you need not ftrive;
One hundred acres will no lefs for you

Your life's whole bufinefs, than ten thoufand, do.
But pleasant 'tis to take from a great store.

What, man! though you're refolv'd to take no more
Than I do from a fmall one? If your will
Be but a pitcher or a pot to fill,

To fome great river for it must you go,
When a clear spring just at your feet does flow?

Give me the fpring, which does to human use
Safe, eafy, and untroubled ftores produce;
He who fcorns these, and needs will drink at Nile,
Muft run the danger of the crocodile,
And of the rapid ftream itself, which may,
At unawares, bear him perhaps away.
In a full flood Tantalus ftands, his skin
Wash'd o'er in vain, for ever dry within:
He catches at the ftream with greedy lips,
From his toucht mouth the wanton torrent flips:
You laugh now, and expand your careful brow;
'Tis finely faid, but what's all this to you?
Change but the name, this fable is thy ftory,
Thou in a flood of useless wealth doft glory,
Which thou canft only touch, but never taste;
Th' abundance ftill, and ftill the want does last.
The treasures of the gods thou would'ft not spare:
But when they're made thine own, they facred arej
And must be kept with reverence; as if thou
No other ufe of precious gold didft know,
But that of curious pictures, to delight,
With the fair ftamp, thy virtuofo fight.
The only true and genuine ufe is this,
To buy the things which nature cannot miss
Without discomfort; oil and vital bread,
And wine, by which the life of life is fed,
And all thofe few things elfe by which we live i
All that remains, is giv'n for thee to give.
If cares and troubles, envy, grief, and fear,
The bitter fruits be, which fair riches bear;
If a new poverty grow out of store;
The old plain way, ye gods! let me be poor.

PARAPHRASE ON HORACE, B. III. OD. XVI.

A TOWER of brafs, one would have said,

And locks, and bolts, and iron bars,

And guards, as ftrict as in the heat of wars,
Might have preferv'd one innocent maidenhead.
The jealous father thought he well might fpare
All further jealous care;

And, as he walk'd, t' himfelf alone he fmil'd,
To think how Venus' arts he had beguil'd;
And, when he flept, his reft was deep:

But Venus laugh'd to fee and hear him fleep.
She taught the amorous Jove

A magical receipt in love,

Which arm'd him ftronger, and which help'd him more,
Than all his thunder did, and his almighty-fhip before.

She taught him love's elixir, by which art

His godhead into gold he did convert :