Praise from the rivell'd lips of toothless, bald
Decreptitude, and in the looks of lean
And craving Poverty, and in the bow
Respectful of the smutch'd artificer,
Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb
The bias of the purpose. How much more,
Pour'd forth by beauty splendid and polite,
In language soft as Adoration breathes?
Ah spare your idol! think him human still.
Charms he may have, but he has frailties too!
Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire.

All truth is from the sempiternal source
Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome,
Drew from the stream below. More favour'd we
Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain-head.
To them it flow'd much mingled and defil'd
With hurtful errou, prejudice, and dreams
Illusive of philosophy, so call'd,

But falsely. Sages after sages strove

In vain to filter off a crystal draught

Pure from the lees, which often more enhanc'd
The thirst than slak'd it, and not seldom bred
Intoxication and delirium wild.

In vain they push'd inquiry to the birth

And spring-time of the world; ask'd, Whence is man?

Why form'd at all? and wherefore as he is?

Where must he find his Maker? with what rites

Adore him? Will he hear, accept, and bless?
Or does he sit regardless of his works?
Has man within him an immortal seed?
Or does the tomb take all? If he survive

His ashes, where? and in what weal or wo?
Knots worthy of solution, which alone
A Deity could solve. Their answers, vague
And all at random, fabulous and dark,

Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life,
Defective and unsanction'd, prov'd too weak

To bind the roving appetite, and lead
Blind nature to a God not yet reveal'd.
"Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts,
Explains all mysteries, except her own,
And so illuminates the path of life,
That fools discover it, and stray no more.
Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir,
My man of morals, nutur'd in the shades
Of Academus-is this false or true?

Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools?
If Christ, then why resort at ev'ry turn
To Athens or to Rome, for wisdom short
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!

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,
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

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.
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;
Or be dishonour'd in th' exteriour form
And mode of its conveyance by such tricks
As move derision, or by foppish airs
And histrionick mumm'ry, that let down
The pulpit to the level of the stage;
Drops from the lips a disregarded 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 see.
A relaxation of religion's hold

Upon the roving and untutor'd heart

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're 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,

A monitor is wood-plank shaven thin.
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 shoulders flat. We prove its use
Sov'reign and most effectual to secure

A form, not now gymnastick as of yore,
'From rickets and distoration, 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,
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;
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

Exhausted, has had genius to supply;

And, studious of mutation still, discard

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

A form as splendid as the proudest there,
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!

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,
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;

Waste youth in occupations only fit

For second childhood, and devote old age
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,