Drops from the lips a difregarded thing.

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 fee.
A relaxation of religion's hold

Upon the roving and untutor'd heart

Soon follows, and, the curb or conscience fnapt,
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 fupplies,
Now make our own. Pofterity will afk
(If e'er pofterity see verse of mine)
Some fifty or an hundred luftrums hence,
What was å 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, clofely brae'd And neatly fitted, it compreffes hard

The prominent and most unfightly bones,

And binds the shoulders flat. We prove its ufe

Sov'reign and most effectual to fecure
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 close, a Mentor worthy of his charge.
Our habits, costlier than Lucullus wore,
And by caprice as multiplied as his,
Juft pleafe 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 fpice 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 fupply;

And, ftudious of mutation ftill, difcard
A real elegance, a little us'd,

For monstrous novelty and strange 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 shows

A form as fplendid as the proudeft there,
Though appetite raise outcries at the coft?
A man o' th' town dines late, but soon enough,
With reasonable forecaft and difpatch,

T' infure a fide-box station at half price.
You think, perhaps, fo delicate his dress,
His daily fare is delicate. Alas!

He picks clean teeth, and,
With an old tavern quill,

bufy as he seems,
hungry yet!

The rout is folly's circle, which the draws
With magic wand. So potent is the spell,
That none, decoy'd into that fatal ring,
Unless by heaven's peculiar grace, efcape.
There we grow early gray, but never wife;
There form connexions, but acquire no friend;
Solicit pleasure, hopeless of fuccefs;

Waste 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 beft
Their wearinefs; and they the most polite
Who fquander time and treasure with a mile,

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 shrug,
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 feel exceffes fhe can ill afford,

Is hackney'd home unlacquey'd; who, in haste
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 starve their wives,
On fortune's velvet altar off'ring up

Their laft poor pittance-fortune, most severe
Of goddeffes yet known, and coftlier far

Than all that held their routs in Juno's heav'n.

So fare we in this prifon-house the world.
And 'tis a fearful fpectacle to fee

So many maniacs 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
That waste our vitals; peculation, fale
Of honour, perjury, corruption, frauds
By forgery, by fubterfuge of law,

By tricks and lies as num'rous and as keen
As the neceffities their authors feel;
Then caft them, clofely bundled, ev'ry brat
At the right door. Profufion is the fire.
Profufion unreftrain'd, with all that's bafe
In character, has litter'd all the land,
And bred, within the mem'ry of no few,
A priesthood fuch as Baal's was of old,
A people fuch as never was till now.
It is a hungry vice:-it eats up all
That gives fociety its beauty, ftrength,
Convenience, and security, and use:

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

Can feize the flipp'ry prey: unties the knot
Of union, and converts the facred band
That holds mankind together to a scourge.
Profufion, deluging a state with lufts
Of groffeft nature and of worst effects,
Prepares it for its ruin: hardens, blinds,
And warps, the confciences of public men,