Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preach'd!

Men that, if now alive, would fit content
And humble learners of a Saviour's worth,

Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth,
Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too!

And thus it is. The paftor, either vain
By nature, or by flatt'ry made fo, taught
To gaze at his own splendour, and t'exalt
Abfurdly, not his office, but himself;
Or unenlighten'd, and too proud to learn;
Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach;
Perverting often, by the ftrefs of lewd
And loofe example, whom he fhould inftru&t;
Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace,
The nobleft function, and difcredits much
The brightest truths that man has ever seen.
For ghoftly counfel; if it either fall

Below the exigence, or be not back'd

With fhow of love, at least with hopeful proof Of fome fincerity on th' giver's part;

Or be dishonour'd, in th' exterior form

And mode of its conveyance, by fuch tricks

As move derifion, or by foppifh airs

And hiftrionic mumm'ry, that let down
The pulpit to the level of the ftage;
Drops from the lips a difregarded thing.

The weak perhaps are mov'd, but are not taught,
While prejudice in men of ftronger minds

Takes deeper root, confirm'd by what they see. A relaxation of religion's hold

Upon the roving and untutor'd heart

Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapt,
The laity run wild.-But do they now?
Note their extravagance, and be convinc'd.

As nations, ignorant of God, contrive
A wooden one, fo we, no longer taught
By monitors that mother church supplies,
Now make our own. Pofterity will ask
(If e'er pofterity see verse of mine)
Some fifty or an hundred luftrums hence,
What was a monitor in George's days?
My very gentle reader, yet unborn,

Of whom I needs muft augur better things,
Since heav'n would fure grow weary of a world
Productive only of a race like our's,

A monitor is wood-plank fhaven thin.

We wear it at our backs. There, closely brac'd
And neatly fitted, it compreffes hard

The prominent and most unfightly bones,
And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its use
Sov'reign and most effectual to secure

A form, not now gymnaftic as of yore,
From rickets and diftortion, else our lot.
But, thus admonish'd, we can walk erect—
One proof at least of manhood! while the friend
Sticks clofe, a Mentor worthy of his charge.
Our habits, coftlier than Lucullus wore,
And by caprice as multiplied as his,
Juft please us while the fashion is at full,
But change with ev'ry moon. The fycophant,
Who waits to dress us, arbitrates their date;
Surveys his fair reversion with keen eye;
Finds one ill made, another obsolete,
This fits not nicely, that is ill conceiv'd;
And, making prize of all that he condemns,
With our expenditure defrays his own.
Variety's the very spice of life,

That gives it all its flavour. We have run

Through ev'ry change that fancy at the loom,

Exhaufted, has had genius to fupply;

And, ftudious of mutation ftill, difcard

A real elegance, a little us'd,

For monftrous novelty and ftrange difguife.
We facrifice to drefs, till household joys
And comforts ceafe. Dress drains our cellar dry,
And keeps our larder lean; puts out our fires;
And introduces hunger, frost, and wo,

Where peace and hospitality might reign.

What man that lives, and that knows how to live,
Would fail t' exhibit at the public fhows

A form as fplendid as the proudeft there,
Though appetite raife outcries at the coft?
A man o' th' town dines late, but foon enough,
With reasonable forecast and dispatch,

T' insure a side box ftation at half price.
You think, perhaps, fo delicate his dress,
His daily fare as delicate. Alas!

He picks clean teeth, and, bufy as he seems
With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet!
The rout is folly's circle, which the draws
With magic wand. So potent is the fpell,
That none, decoy'd into that fatal ring,
Unless by heaven's peculiar grace, escape.
There we grow early gray, but never wife;

There form connexions, but acquire no friend; Solicit pleasure, hopeless of fuccefs;

Wafte youth in occupations only fit

For fecond childhood, and devote old age
To fports which only childhood could excufe.
There they are happiest who diffemble best
Their wearinefs; and they the most polite
Who fquander time and treasure with a smile,
Though at their own destruction. She, that afks
Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all,
And hates their coming. They (what can they lefs?)
Make juft reprisals; and, with cringe and fhrug,
And bow obfequious, hide their hate of her.
All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace,
Whofe flambeaux flash against the morning fkies,
And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass,
To her who, frugal only that her thrift
May feed exceffes fhe can ill afford,

Is hackney'd home unlacquey'd; who, in hafte
Alighting, turns the key in her own door,

And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light, Finds a cold bed her only comfort left.

Wives beggar husbands, husbands ftarve their wives, On fortune's velvet altar off'ring up