English

Argument Of the Use of RICHES

'Tis strange, the Miser should his Cares employ
To gain those Riches he can ne'er enjoy.
Is it less strange, the Prodigal should waste
His wealth, to purchase what he ne'er can taste?
Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats;
Artists must chuse his Pictures, Music, Meats:
He buys for Topham, Drawings and Designs,
For Pembroke Statues, dirty Gods, and Coins;
Rare monkish Manuscripts for Hearne alone,
And Books for Mead, and Butterflies for Sloane.

In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,
The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-tied curtains never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from the bed
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villiers lies,--alas! how changed from him,
That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love;
Or just as gay, at council, in a ring

Argument Of the Use of RICHES

Who shall decide, when Doctors disagree,
And soundest Casuists doubt, like you and me?
You hold the word, from Jove to Momus giv'n,
That Man was made the standing jest of Heav'n;
And Gold but sent to keep the fools in play,
For some to heap, and some to throw away.
But I, who think more highly of our kind,
(And surely, Heav'n and I are of a mind)
Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound,
Deep hid the shining mischief under ground:

[ Theseus in triumph ]

When Thesus with werres longe and grete
The aspre folk of Cithe had overcome,
With laurer corouned in his char goldbete
Hom to his contre houses is he come,
For which the peple, blisful al and somme,
So cryeden that to the sterres hit wente
And him to honouren dide al her entente.

Beforn this duk in signe of victorie
The trompes come, and in his baner large
The ymage of Mars, and in tokenyng of glorie
Men myghte sen of tresour many a charge,

There stood as in the Centre of the Town
An Altar sacred to the Poor alone;
Here gentle Clemency has fix'd her Seat:
And none but Wretches hallow the Retreat.
A Train of Votaries she never wants:
And all Requests and Suits, impartial, grants.
Whoe'er implore, a speedy Audience gain;
And open Night and Day her Gates remain:
That Misery might ever find Access
And by Complaints alone obtain Redress.
Nor costly are her Rites: no Blood she claims
From slaughter'd Victims, nor odorous Flames;

The fatal Hour arrives so rashly sought,
With Horror, Sorrow, Blood and Carnage fraught;
And Death, from Chains and Stygian Darkness freed,
Enjoys the Light, and stalking o'er the Mead,
Expands his Jaws, and to his Arms invites
The Men of Worth, but vulgar Triumphs slights.
He marks the Chiefs who most deserve their Life,
The first in Arms, and foremost in the Strife;
Of these, scarce number'd with the mighty dead,
The Fiends rapacious snatch the vital Thread.
Mars occupies the Centre of the Field,

The Fury heard, while on Cocytus ' Brink
Her Snakes, unty'd, Sulphureous Waters drink;
But at the Summons, roll'd her Eyes around,
And snatch'd the starting Serpents from the Ground.
Not half so swiftly shoots along in Air
The gliding Lightning, or descending Star.
Thro' Crouds of Airy Shades she wing'd her Flight,
And dark Dominions of the silent Night;
Swift as she past, the flitting Ghosts withdrew,
And the pale Spectres trembled at her View:
To th'Iron Gates of Taenarus she flies,

Now wretched Oedipus , depriv'd of Sight,
Led a long Death in everlasting Night;
But while he dwells where not a chearful Ray
Can pierce the Darkness, and abhors the Day;
The clear, reflecting Mind, presents his Sin
In frightful Views, and makes it Day within;
Returning Thoughts in endless Circles roll,
And thousand Furies haunt his guilty Soul.
The Wretch then lifted to th' unpitying skies
Those empty Orbs, from whence he tore his Eyes,
Whose wounds yet fresh, with bloody Hands he strook,

Fraternal Rage, the guilty Thebes alarms,
Th' alternate reign destroy'd by impious arms,
Demand our song; a sacred fury fires
My ravish'd breast, and all the Muse inspires.
O Goddess, say, shall I deduce my rhimes
From the dire nation in its early times,
Europa's rape, Agenor's stern decree,
And Cadmus searching round the spacious sea?
How with the serpent's teeth he sow'd the soil,
And reap'd an Iron harvest of his toil?
Or how from joining stones the city sprung,
While to his harp divine Amphion sung?

FROMLa Clemenza di Tito
Would you hope to gain my heart,
Bid your teizing Doubts depart;
He who blindly trusts, will find
Faith from every generous mind;
He who still expects deceit,
Only teaches how to cheat.