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Who when the world's great commerce shall have sucíueves

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The deep reflection, and the strength of mind,
To the bright talents of thy youthful state,
In turn shall on thy better lessons wait.

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Whence comes it, that in every art we see
Many can rise to a supreme degree;
Yet in this art, for which all seem design'd
By nature, scarcely one compleat we find ?
You'll

say,

perhaps, we think, we speak, we move,
By the strong springs alone of selfish love:

among all the species, is there one,
Whom with more caution than ourselves we shun?
What is it fills a puppet-show or court?
Go none but for the profit or the sport?
If so, why comes each soul fatigu'd away,
And curses the dull puppets same dull play ;
Yet, unconvinc'd, is tempted still to go?
'Tis that we find at home our greatest foe.
And reason good why solitude we fee;
Can wants with self-sufficiency agree? 30

Yet, such our inconsistency of mind,
We court society, and hate mankind.
With some we quarrel, for they're too sincere:
With others, for they're close, reserv’d and queer ;
This is too learn’d, too prudent, or too wise ;
And that we for his ignorance despise :

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A voice perhaps our ear shall harshly strike,
Then strait ev'n wit itself shall raise dislike ;
Our eye may by some feature be annoy'd,
Behold at once a character destroy'd : 46
One's so good-natur'd, he's beyond all bearing,
He'll ridicule no friend, though out of hearing :

Another warm’d with zeal, offends our eyes,
of Because he holds the mirror up to vice.

No wonder then, since fancies wild as these
Can move our spleen, that real faults displease.
When Maevius, spite of dulness, will be bright,
And teach ARGYLL to speak, and Swift to write ;
When Flavia entertains us with her dreams,
And Macer with his no less airy schemes; to
When peevishness, and jealousy and pride,

And int'rest that can brother hearts divide,
4 In their imagin’d forms our eyesight hit,

Of an old maid, a poet, peer or cit;
Can then, You'll say, philosophy refrain,
And check the torrent of each boiling vein ?
Yes. She can still do more ; view passion's slave
With mind serene, indulge him, and yet save.

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But self-conceit steps in, and with strict eye
Scans every man, and every man awry ;

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That reigning passion, which through every stage
Of life, still haunts us with unceasing rage.
No quality so mean, but what can raise
Some drudging driveling candidate for praise ;

Ev'n in the wretch, who wretches can despise,
Still self-conceit will find a time to rise.
Quintus salutes you with forbidding face,
And thinks he carries his excuse in lace:
You ask, why Clodius bullies all he cạn?
Clodius will tell you, he's a gentleman : yo
Myrtilla struts and shudders half the year,
With a round cap, that shews a fine-turn'd ear :
The lowest jest makes Delia laugh to death;
Yet she's no fool, she has only handsome teeth,
Ventoso lolls, and scorns all human kind,
From the gilt coach with four lac'd slaves behind :
Does all this pomp and state proceed from merit?
Mean thought! he deems it nobler to inherit :
While Fopling from some title' draws his pride,
Meanless, or infamous, or misapply'd ; 80
Free-mason, rake, or wit, 'tis just the same,
The charm is hence, he has gain'd himself a name.
Yet, spite of all the fools that pride has made.
'Tis not on man an useless burthen laid;
Pride has ennobled some, and some disgrac'd;
It hurts not in itself, but as 'tis plac'd :
When right, its view knows none but virtue's bound;
When wrong, it scarcely looks one inch around.
Mark! with what care the fair one's critic eye
Scans o'er her dress, nor lets a fault slip by ;
Each rebel hair must be reduc'd to place
With tedious skill, and tortur'd into grace ;
Betty must o’er.and o'er the pins dispose,
Till into modish folds the drapery flows,

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And the whole frame is fitted to express
The charms of decency and nakedness.
Why all this art, this labor'd ornament?
To captivate, You'll cry, no doubt, 'tis meant,
True. But let's wait upon this fair machine
From the lone closet to the social scene; 100
There view her loud, affected, scornful, sour,
Paining all others, and herself still more.
What means she, at one instant to disgrace
The labor of ten hours, her much-lov'd face ?
Why, 'tis the self-same passion gratify'd;
The work is ruin'd, that was rais’d by pride.

119

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Yet of all tempers, it requires lcast pain,
Could we but rule ourselves, to rule the vain.
The prudent is by reason only sway'd,
With him each sentence and each word is weigh'd;
The

gay and giddy can alone be caught
By the quick lustre of a happy thought ;
The miser hates, unless he steals your pelf;
The prodigal, unless you rob yourself;
The lewd will shun

wife
The jealous, if a smile on his be cast;
The steady or the whimsical will blame,
Either, because you're not, or are the same;
The peevish, sullen, shrewd, luxurious, rash,
Will with your virtue, peace, or interest, clash ; 120
But mark the proud man's price, how very low !
'Tis but a civil speech, a smile, or bow.

you,

if
your

prove chaste

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Ye who, push'd on by noble ardor, aim,
In social life' to gain immortal fame,
Observe the various passions of mankind,
General, peculiar, single, or combin'd:
How youth from manhood differs in its views,
And how old age still other paths pursues ;
How zeal in Priscus nothing more than heats,
In Codex burns, and ruins all it meets ; 130
How freedom now a lovely face shall wear,
Now shock us in the likeness of a bear;
How jealousy in some resembles hate,
In others, seems but love

grown

delicate;
How modesty is often pride refin'd,
And virtue but the canker of the mind :
How love of riches, grandeur, life, and faine,
Wear different shapes, and yet are still the same.

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But not our passions only disagree,
In taste is found as great variety :

140
Sylvius is ravish'd when he hears a hound,
His lady hates to death the odious sound:
Yet both love music, though in different ways;
He in a kennel, she at operas.
A florist shall, perhaps, not grudge some hours,
To view the colors in a bed of flowers;
Yet, shew him Titian's workmanship divine,
He passes on, and only cries, 'tis fine.
A rusty coin, an old worm-eaten post,
The mouldy fragment of an author lost, 760

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