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See! sportive fate, to punish aukward pride,
Bids Bubo build, and sends him such a guide:
A standing sermon at each year's expence,
That never coxcomb reach'd magnificence!

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You shew us Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of use; Yet shall, my lord, your just, your noble rules 25 Fill half the land with imitating fools,

Who random drawings from your sheets shall take,
And of one beauty many blunders make;
Load some vain church with old theatric state,
Turn arcs of triumph to a garden-gate;"
Reverse your ornaments, and hang them all
On some patch'd doghole ek'd with ends of wall;
Then clap four slices of pilaster on't,

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That lac'd with bits of rustic makes a front;
Shall call the winds through long arcades to roar. 35
Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door;
Conscious they act a true Palladian part,
And if they starve they starve by rules of art.
Oft have you hinted to your brother

peer
A certain truth, which many buy too dear:
Something there is more needful than expence,
And something previous ev'n to taste---'tis sense;
Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven,
And though no science, fairly worth the seven;
A light which in yourself you must perceive;
Jones and Le Nôtre have it not to give.

To build, to plant, whatever you intend,
To rear the column, or the arch to bend,
To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot,
In all let nature never be forgot;
But treat the goddess like a modest fair,
Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare;
Let not each beauty every where be spied,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points who pleasingly confounds,
Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds.

Consult the genius of the place in all,
That tells the waters or to rise or fall;

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Or helps th' ambitious hill the heav'ns to scale,
Or scoops in circling theatres the vale;

Calls in the country, catches opening glades,

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Joins willing woods, and varies shades from shades; I+
Now breaks, or now directs, th' intending lines,
Paints as you plant, and as you work designs.
Still follow sense, of every art the soul,
Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from difficulty, strike from chance:
Nature shall join you; time shall make it grow
A work to wonder at---perhaps a Stow.

Without it, proud Versailles! thy glory falls,

And Nero's terraces desert their walls:

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The vast parterres a thousand hands shall make,
Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a lake:
Or cut wide views through mountains to the plain, 75
You'll wish your hill or shelter'd seat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
Nor in an hermitage set Dr. Clarke.

Behold Villario's ten years' toil complete,

His quincunx darkens, his espaliers meet,
The wood supports the plain, the parts unite,

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And strength of shade contends with strength of light; A waving glow the bloomy beds display,

Blushing in bright diversities of day,

With silver-quivering rills meander'd o'er---
Enjoy them you! Villario can no more:

Tir'd of the scene parterres and fountains yield,
He finds at last he better likes a field.

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Through his young woods how pleas'd Sabinus

stray'd,

Or sat delighted in the thickening shade,
With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet,
Or see the stretching branches long to meet!
His son's fine taste an opener visto loves,
Foe to the Dryads of his father's groves;
One boundless green or flourish'd carpet views,
With all the mournful family of yews;

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The thriving plants, ignoble broomsticks made,
Now sweep those alleys they were born to shade.
At Timon's villa let us pass a day;

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Where all cry out, "What sums are thrown away!"
So proud, so grand; of that stupendous air
Soft and agreeable come never there.

Greatness with Timon dwells in such a draught
As brings all Brobdignag before your thought.
To compass this his building is a town,
His pond an ocean, his parterre a down:
Who but must laugh, the master when he sees,
A puny
insect shivering at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole a labour'd quarry above ground.
Two Cupids squirt before; a lake behind
Improves the keenness of the northern wind.
His gardens next your admiration call;

On

every side you look, behold the wall! No pleasing intricacies intervene,

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No artful wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother,
And half the platform just reflects the other.
The suffering eye inverted nature sees,
Trees cut to statues, statues thick as trees;
With here a fountain never to be play'd,
And there a summer-house that knows no shade;
Here Amphitrite sails through myrtle bowers;
There gladiators fight or die in flowers;
Unwater'd see the drooping sea-horse mourn,
And swallows roost in Nilus' dusty urn.
My lord advances with majestic mien,
Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen:
But soft---by regular approach---not yet---
First through the length of yon hot terrace sweat; 130
And when up ten steep slopes you've dragg'd your
thighs,

Just at his study-door he'll bless vour eyes.
His study with what authors is it stor❜d?
In books, not authors, curious is my lord;

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To all their dated backs he turns you round;
These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound!
Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good,
For all his lordship knows, but they are wood!
For Locke or Milton 'tis in vain to look;
These shelves admit not any modern book.

And now the chapel's silver bell you hear,
That summons you to all the pride of prayer:
Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,
Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heaven.
On painted ceilings you devoutly stare,

Where sprawl the saints of Verrie or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To rest the cushion and soft dean invite,
Who never mentions hell to ears polite.

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But, hark! the chiming clocks to dinner call; A hundred footsteps scrape the marble hall: The rich buffet well-colour'd serpents grace, And gaping Tritons spew to wash your face. Is this a dinner? this a genial room? No, 'tis a temple and a hecatomb; A solemn sacrifice perform'd in state; You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. So quick retires each flying course, you'd swear Sancho's dread doctor and his wand were there. 160 Between each act the trembling salvers ring,

From soup to sweet wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,

And complaisantly help'd to all I hate,
Treated, caress'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve:
I curse such lavish cost and little skill,
And swear no day was ever past so ill.

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Yet hence the poor are cloth'd, the hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread The labourer bears; what his hard heart denies His charitable vanity supplies.

Another age shall see the golden ear Embrown the slope, and nod on the parterre;

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Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres reassume the land.

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Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle? 'Tis use alone that sanctifies expence,

And splendour borrows all her rays from sense.
His father's acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his neighbours glad if he increase;
Whose cheerful tenants bless their yearly toil,
Yet to their lord owe more than to the soil;
Whose ample lawns are not asham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deserving steed;
Whose rising forests not for pride or shew,
But future buildings, future navies grow;
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First shade a country, and then raise a town.
You too proceed! make falling arts your care,
Erect new wonders, and the old repair;
Jones and Palladio to themselves restore,
And be whate'er Vitruvius was before:
Till kings call forth th' ideas of your mind,
(Proud to accomplish what such hands design'd)
Bid harbours open, public ways extend,
Bid temples worthier of the God ascend;
Bid the broad arch the dangerous flood contain,
The mole projected break the roaring main;
Back to his bounds their subject sea command,
And roll obedient rivers through the land:
These honours Peace to happy Britain brings;
These are imperial works, and worthy kings.

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