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Of vice or virtue, whether blest or curst,
Which meets contempt, or which compassion first?
Count all the advantage prosperous vice attains,
'Tis but what virtue flies from and disdains :
And grant the bad what happiness they would,
One they must want, which is, to pass for good.5
Oh blind to truth, and God's whole scheme below,
Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe!

Who sees and follows that great scheme the best,
Best knows the blessing, and will most be blest.
But fools, the good alone, unhappy call,
For ills or accidents that chance to all.
See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just !6
See godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust! 7
See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife! 8
Was this their virtue, or contempt of life?

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.5 In the MS.,

"Let sober moralists correct their speech,

No bad man's happy: he is great, or rich."

6 [Lucius Cary, the second Viscount Falkland, whose memory Clarendon has embalmed in one of his most finished and beautifully-drawn characters. He was learned, eloquent, and high-minded, but probably better fitted for speculation than action. His first public services were on the side of the Parliament, but he afterwards embraced the cause of Charles, and died in battle, a volunteer, at Newbury, in 1643, aged thirty-four.]

7 "This epithet has a peculiar justness; the great man to whom it is applied not being distinguished, from other generals, for any of his superior qualities so much as for his providential care of those whom he led to war; which was so uncommon, that his chief purpose in taking on himself the command of armies seems to have been the preservation of mankind. In this godlike care he was more distinguishably employed throughout the whole course of that famous campaign in which he lost his life."—Warburton. [Marshal Turenne was killed by a cannon shot, July 27, 1675, near the village of Saltyback. Voltaire, in his affectionate record of his death, says, "It seems as if one could not too often repeat, that the same bullet which killed him, having shot off the arm of St. Hilaire, lieutenant-general of the artillery, his son came and bewailed his misfortune with many tears but the father, looking towards Turenne, said, 'It is not I, but that great man who should be lamented.' These words may be compared with the most heroic sayings recorded in all history.'"]

8 [Sir Philip Sidney, the flower of the English nobility, in the chivalrous and romantic reign of Elizabeth, was mortally wounded in a victorious action near Zutphen, and died on the 17th of October, 1586. His body was brought

Say, was it virtue, more though Heaven ne'er gave,
Lamented Digby! sunk thee to the grave?

Tell me, if virtue made the son expire,9

105

Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire ?

Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath,

When nature sicken'd, and each gale was death ? 10
Or why so long (in life if long can be)

Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me? 11

110

What makes all physical or moral ill?

There deviates nature, and here wanders will.
God sends not ill; if rightly understood,
Or partial ill is universal good,

Or change admits, or nature lets it fall,
Short, and but rare, 'till man improved it all.12
We just as wisely might of Heaven complain
That righteous Abel was destroy'd by Cain,
As that the virtuous son is ill at ease

115

When his lewd father gave the dire disease.

120

Think we, like some weak prince, the Eternal Cause
Prone for his favourites to reverse his laws?

Shall burning Etna, if a sage requires,13

Forget to thunder, and recall her fires?

to England, and buried in St. Paul's, amidst the tears and regrets of the whole nation, by whom he seems to have been idolised. Sidney's prose and verse, his Arcadia, Defence of Poesy, and Songs and Sonnets, gave him a high reputation in his own day, but the want of nature and genuine passion has been fatal to their popularity. Some of his fine lines and sentiments, however, are still current, and his name and history possess a never-dying interest.]

9 [See Pope's epitaph on the Hon. Robert Digby, who died in 1727.] 10 [The celebrated Bishop of Marseilles, M. de Belsance, distinguished himself in a particular manner, by his intrepid zeal and philanthropy during the time of the great plague in Marseilles, in 1720. The bishop lived till 1755. The two lines of Pope were worth more than all the honours heaped upon the good prelate by Louis XV. and the Pontiff.]

11 [Pope's mother died the same year, 1733, that this fourth epistle was published.]

12 In the MS.

"Of every evil since the world began,

The real source is not in God, but man."

18 [Alluding to the fate of the elder Pliny, who, being at Misenum during the great eruption of Vesuvius, in the first year of Titus, and being anxious to make observations on the phenomenon, incautiously exposed himself, and was suffocated.]

On air or sea new motions be impress'd,

125

Oh blameless Bethel! to relieve thy breast? 14

When the loose mountain trembles from on high,
Shall gravitation cease, if you go by?

Or some old temple, nodding to its fall,

For Chartres' head reserve the hanging wall?

130

But still this world (so fitted for the knave)

Contents us not. A better shall we have?

A kingdom of the just then let it be:

But first consider how those just agree.
The good must merit God's peculiar care!

135

But who, but God, can tell us who they are?

One thinks on Calvin Heaven's own spirit fell;
Another deems him instrument of hell;
If Calvin feel Heaven's blessing, or its rod,
This cries, There is, and that, there is no God.
What shocks one part will edify the rest,
Nor with one system can they all be blest.
The very best will variously incline,
And what rewards your virtue, punish mine.
Whatever is, is right. This world, 'tis true,
Was made for Cæsar-but for Titus too;

140

145

And which more blest? who chain'd his country, say,

Or he whose virtue sigh'd to lose a day?

"But sometimes virtue starves, while vice is fed."

What then? is the reward of virtue bread?

150

That, vice may merit, 'tis the price of toil;
The knave deserves it, when he tills the soil,

The knave deserves it, when he tempts the main,

Where folly fights for kings, or dives for gain.
The good man may be weak, be indolent;
Nor is his claim to plenty, but content.
But grant him riches, your demand is o'er?

155

"No-shall the good want health, the good want power?" Add health and power, and every earthly thing,

"Why bounded power? why private? why no king ?" 160 Nay, why external for internal given?

Why is not man a god, and earth a heaven?
Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive

God gives enough, while he has more to give ;

14 [Hugh Bethel, Esq., the poet's friend, who was afflicted with asthma. For Chartres (v. 130) see Moral Essays, Ep. II.]

Immense the power, immense were the demand;
Say, at what part of nature will they stand?

What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy,
The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy,
Is virtue's prize: a better would you fix?
Then give humility a coach and six,
Justice a conqueror's sword, or truth a gown,
Or public spirit its great cure, a crown.15

165

170

Weak, foolish man! will Heaven reward us there
With the same trash mad mortals wish for here?
The boy and man an individual makes,

175

Yet sigh'st thou now for apples and for cakes?
Go, like the Indian, in another life

Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife;
As well as dream such trifles are assign'd,
As toys and empires, for a godlike mind.
Rewards, that either would to virtue bring
No joy, or be destructive of the thing:
How oft by these at sixty are undone
The virtues of a saint at twenty-one!
To whom can riches give repute, or trust,
Content, or pleasure, but the good and just?
Judges and senates have been bought for gold,
Esteem and love were never to be sold.

180

185

O fool! to think God hates the worthy mind,
The lover and the love of human kind.

190

Whose life is healthful, and whose conscience clear,
Because he wants a thousand pounds a year.

Honour and shame from no condition rise:
Act well your part; there all the honour lies.
Fortune in men has some small difference made,
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade;
The cobbler apron'd, and the parson gown'd,
The friar hooded, and the monarch crown'd.

195

“What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl?"
I'll tell you, friend! a wise man and a fool.
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,
Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk,

200

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Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow :
The rest is all but leather or prunella.

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Stuck o'er with titles and hung round with strings, 205
That thou may'st be by kings or whores of kings.
Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race,

In quiet flow from Lucrece to Lucrece: 16
But by your father's worth if yours you rate,
Count me those only who were good and great.

210

16 In the MS. thus:

"The richest blood, right honourably old,
Down from Lucretia to Lucretia roll'd,
May swell thy heart and gallop in thy breast,
Without one dash of usher or of priest:
Thy pride as much despise all other pride,
As Christ-Church once all colleges beside."

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