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Something there is more needful than Expence,
And fomething previous ev'n to Tafte-'tis Senfe:
Good Senfe, 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 fwell the Terras, or to fink 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 spy'd,
Where half the skill is decently to hide.
He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds,
Surprizes, varies, and conceals the Bounds.
Confult the Genius of the Place in all;
That tells the Waters or to rife, or fall;
Or helps th' ambitious Hill the heavens to scale,
Or fcoops in circling theatres the Vale;
Calls-in the country, catches opening glades,
Joins willing woods, and varies fhades from fhades ;
Now breaks, or now directs th' intending Lines;
Paints as you plant, and, as you work, defigns.
Still follow Senfe, of every Art the Soul,
Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole,
Spontaneous beauties all around advance,
Start ev'n from Difficulty, ftrike from Chance ;
Nature shall join you; Time fhall make it grow
A Work to wonder at-perhaps a Srow.
Without it, proud Verfailles! thy glory falls: And Nero's Terraces defert their walls:
The vaft Parterres a thousand hands fhall make,
Lo! Cobham comes, and floats them with a Lake:
Or cut wide views through mountains to the Plain, 75
You'll with your hill or fhelter'd feat again.
Ev'n in an ornament its place remark,
Nor in an Hermitage fet Dr. Clarke.
Behold Villario's ten years toil complete ;
His Quincunx darkens, his Efpaliers meet;
The wood fupports the Plain, the parts unite,
And strength of Shade contends with strength of Light;
A waving Glow the bloomy beds difplay,
Blushing in bright diversities of day,
With filver-quivering rills mæander'd o'er
Enjoy them, you! Villario can no more;
Tir'd of the fcene Parterres and Fountains yield.
He finds at last he better likes a Field.
Through his young Woods how pleas'd Sabinus ftray'd, Or fate delighted in the thickening fhade, With annual joy the reddening fhoots to greet, Or fee the stretching branches long to meet! His Son's fine Tafte an opener Vista 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:
The thriving plants ignoble broomsticks made,
Now sweep thofe Alleys they were born to fhade.
At Timon's Villa let us pafs a day,
Where all cry out, "What fums are thrown away!"
So proud, fo grand; of that ftupendous air,
Soft and Agreeable come never there.
Greatnefs, with Timon, dwells in fuch a draught
As brings all Brobdingnag before your thought.
To compaís 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 infect, fhivering at a breeze!
Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around!
The whole, a labour'd Quarry above ground,
Two Cupids fquirt before: a Lake behind
Improves the keennefs of the Northern wind.
His Gardens next your admiration call,
On every fide you look, behold the Wall!
No pleasing Intricacies intervene,
No artful Wildness to perplex the scene;
Grove nods at grove, each Alley has a brother,
And half the platform juft reflects the other.
The fuffering eye inverted Nature fees,
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 fails through myrtle bowers;
There Gladiators fight, or die in flowers;
Unwater'd see the drooping fea-horse mourn,
And fwallows rooft in Nilus' dusty Urn.
My Lord advances with majestic mien, Smit with the mighty pleasure to be seen : by regular approach-not yet
The length of yon hot Terrace fweat; 130
And when up ten steep flopes you've dragg'd your thighs,
Juft at his Study-door he'll bless your eyes.
His Study with what Authors is it stor'd?
In Books, not Authors, curious is my Lord;
To all their dated backs he turns you round;
Thefe Aldus printed, thofe Du Sueil has bound.
Lo, fome are Vellom, 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 filver bell you hear,
That fummons you to all the Pride of Prayer:
Light quirks of Music, broken and uneven.
Make the foul dance upon a jig to Heaven.
On painted Cielings you devoutly stare,
Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio or Laguerre,
Or gilded clouds in fair expansion lie,
And bring all Paradise before your eye.
To reft, the Cushion and soft Dean invite,
Who never mentions Hell to ears polite.
But hark! the chiming Clocks to dinner call;
A hundred footsteps fcrape the marble Hall:
The rich Buffet well-colour'd Serpents grace,
And gaping Tritons fpew to wash your face.
Is this a dinner? this a genial room?
No, 'tis a Temple, and a Hecatomb.
A folemn Sacrifice perform'd in ftate,
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 A&t the trembling falvers ring,
From foup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King.
In plenty starving, tantaliz'd in state,
And complaifantly help'd to all I hate,
Treated, carefs'd, and tir'd, I take my leave,
Sick of his civil pride from morn to eve;
I curfe fuch lavish cost, and little skill,
And swear no day was ever past so ill.
Yet hence the Poor are cloath'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
Imbrown the Slope, and nod on the Parterre,
Deep Harvest bury all his pride has plann'd,
And laughing Ceres reaffume the land.
Who then shall grace, or who improve the Soil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle. 'Tis Ufe alone that fanctifies Expence,
And Splendor borrows all her rays from Senfe.
His Father's Acres who enjoys in peace,
Or makes his Neigbours glad, if he increase:
Whofe chearful Tenants blefs their yearly toil,
Yet to their Lord owe more than to the foil;
Whofe ample Lawns are not asham'd to feed
The milky heifer and deferving steed;
Whofe rifing forefts, not for pride or show,
But future Buildings, future Navies, grow:
Let his plantations stretch from down to down,
First shade a Country, and then raise a Town.