Of man's occasions, when in him reside

Grace, knowledge, comfort-an unfathom'd store?
How oft, when Paul has serv'd us with a text,

Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully, preach'd!

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Men that, if now alive, would sit content

And humble learners of a Saviour's worth,

Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth,

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Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too.
And thus it is.-The pastor, either vain
By nature, or by flatt'ry made so, taught
To gaze at his own splendour, and t'exalt
Absurdly, 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 stress of lewd

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And loose example, whom he should instruct;
Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace,
The noblest function, and discredits much

The brightest truths that man has ever seen.

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For ghostly counsel; if it either fall

Below the exigence, or be not back'd

With show of love, at least with hopeful proof
Of some sincerity on the giver's part;

The weak perhaps are mov'd, but are not taught

While prejudice in men of stronger minds

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

Upon the roving and untutor'd heart

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Soon follows, and, the curb of conscience snapp'd

The laity run wild. But do they now?

Note their extravagance, and be convinc'd.

As nations, ignorant of God, contrive

A wooden one: so we, no longer taught
By monitors, that mother church supplies,
Now make our own. Posterity will ask,
(If e'er posterity see verse of mine,)
Some fifty or a hundred lustrums hence,
What was a monitor in George's days?
My very gentle reader, yet unborn,

Of whom I needs must augur better things,

Since Heav'n would sure grow weary of a world
Productive only of a race like ours,

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A monitor is wood-plank shaven thin.

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

The prominent and most unsightly bones,

And binds the shoulder flat. We prove its use
Sov'reign and most effectual to secure

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A form, not now gymnastick as of yore,

From rickets, and distortion, else our lot.

But thus admonish'd, we can walk erect→→→

One proof at least of manhood! while the friend

Sticks close, a Mentor worthy of his charge.

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Our habits, costlier than Lucullus wore,
And by caprice as multiplied as his,

Just please us while the fashion is at full,

But change with ev'ry moon. The sycophant,
Who waits to dress us, arbitrates their date;

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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.

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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
Exhausted, has had genius to supply;

And studious of mutation still, discard

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A real elegance, a little us'd,

For monstrous novelty and strange disguise.

We sacrifice to dress, till household joys

And comforts cease. 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 publick shows

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A form as splendid as the proudest there,

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Though appetite raise outcries at the cost?

A man o' th' town dines late, but soon enough,
With reasonable forecast and despatch,

T' ensure a side-box station at half price.

You think, perhaps, so delicate his dress,
His daily fare as delicate. Alas!

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He picks clean teeth, and, busy as he seems
With an old tavern quill, is hungry yet!
The rout is Folly's circle, which she draws

With magick wand. So potent is the spell,

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That none, decoy'd into that fatal ring,

Unless by Heav'n's peculiar grace, escape.

There we grow early gray, but never wise;

There form connexions, but acquire no friend;

Solicit pleasure hopeless of success ;

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Waste youth in occupations only fit

For second childhood, and devote old age

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To sports, which only childhood could excuse.
There, they are happiest who dissemble best
Their weariness; and they the most polite
Who squander time and treasure with a smile,
Though at their own destruction. She that asks
Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all,
And hates their coming. They (what can they less?)
Make just reprisals; and with cringe and shrug, 645
And bow obsequious, hide their hate of her.
All catch the frenzy, downward from her grace,
Whose flambeaux flash against the morning skies,
And gild our chamber ceilings as they pass,
To her, who, frugal only that her thrift

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May feed excesses she can ill afford,

Is hackney'd home unlackey'd; who, in haste
Alighting, turrs the key in her own door,

And, at the watchman's lantern borrowing light,

Finds a cold bed her only comfort left.

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Wives beggar husbands, husbands starve their wives, On Fortune's velvet altar off'ring up

Their last poor pittance-Fortune, most severe
Of goddesses yet known, and costlier far

Than all that held their routs in Juno's Heav'n.- 660

So fare we in this prison-house, the World;

And 'tis a fearful spectacle to see

So many maniacks dancing in their chains.
They gaze upon the links, that hold them fast,
With eyes of anguish, execrate their lot,
Then shake them in despair, and dance again!
Now basket up the family of plagues,

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That waste our vitals; peculation, sale

Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds
By forgery, by subterfuge of law,

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By tricks and lies as num'rous and as keen
As the necessities their authors feel:
Then cast them, closely bundled, ev'ry brat
At the right door. Profusion is the sire.
Profusion unrestrain'd, with all that's base
In character, has litter'd all the land,
And bred, within the mem'ry of no few,

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A priesthood, such as Baal's was of old,
A people, such as never was till now.
It is a hungry vice :-it eats up all

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That gives society its beauty, strength,

Convenience, security, and use:

Makes men mere vermin, worthy to be trapp'd
And gibbeted, as fast as catchpole claws

Can seize the slippery prey: unties the knot

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Of union, and converts the sacred band
That holds mankind together, to a scourge.
Profusion deluging a state with lusts

Of grossest nature and of worst effects,
Prepares it for its ruin hardens, blinds,
And warps, the consciences of publick men,
Till they can laugh at Virtue; mock the fools
That trust them; and in th❞end disclose a face,
That would have shock'd Credulity herself.
Unmask'd, vouchsafing this their sole excuse—
Since all alike are selfish, why not they?
This does Profusion, and th' accursed cause
Of such deep mischief has itself a cause.

In colleges and halls in ancient days,
When learning, virtue, piety, and truth,
Were precious and inculcated with care,
There dwelt a sage call'd Discipline. His head,
Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er,
Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,
But strong for service still, and unimpair'd.
His eye was meek and gentle, and a smile

Play'd on his lips; and in his speech was heard
Paternal sweetness, dignity, and love.
The occupation dearest to his heart

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695

700

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Was to encourage goodness. He would stroke
The head of modest and ingenious worth,

710

That blush'd at his own praise: and press the youth Close to his side that pleas'd him. Learning grew Beneath his care, a thriving vig'rous plant;

The mind was well informed, the passions held

715

Subordinate, and diligence was choice.

If e'er it chanc'd, as sometimes chance it must,

That one among so many overleap'd

The limits of control, his gentle eye

Grew stern, and darted a severe rebuke;

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His frown was full of terrour, and his voice

Shook the delinquent with such fits of awe,

As left him not, till penitence had won

Lost favour back again, and clos'd the breach.
But Discipline, a faithful servant long,
Declin'd at length into the vale of years.

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