numberless worlds that are scattered up and down in the infinite space of the sky which we behold.

The other many inconveniences of grandeur I have spoken of dispersedly in several chapters; and shall end this with an ode of Horace, not exactly copied, but rudely imitated.

HORACE, LIB. III. ODE I.

"Odi profanum vulgus." &c.

1.

Hence, ye profane; I hate ye all;

Both the great vulgar, and the small.

To virgin minds, which yet their native whiteness hold, Not yet discolour'd with the love of gold,

(That jaundice of the soul,

Which makes it look so gilded and so foul,)
To you, ye very few, these truths I tell ;

The muse inspires my song; hark, and observe it well.

2.

We look on men, and wonder at such odds

"Twixt things that were the same by birth;
We look on kings as giants of the earth,
These giants are but pigmies to the gods.
The humblest bush and proudest oak

Are but of equal proof against the thunder-stroke.

Beauty, and strength, and wit, and wealth, and power, Have their short flourishing hour;

And love to see themselves, and smile, And joy in their pre-eminence a while; Even so in the same land,

Poor weeds, rich corn, gay flowers, together stand; Alas, death mows down all with an impartial hand.

3.

And all ye men, whom greatness does so please,
Ye feast, I fear, like Damocles:

If ye your eyes could upwards move, (But ye, I fear, think nothing is above) Ye would perceive by what a little thread

The sword still hangs over your head.
No tide of wine would drown your cares;
No mirth or musick over-noise your fears,
The fear of death would you so watchful keep,
As not t'admit the image of it, sleep.

4.

Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces,
And yet so humble too, as not to scorn

The meanest country cottages;

"His poppy grows among the corn." The halcyon sleep will never build his nest In any stormy breast.

'Tis not enough that he does find
Clouds and darkness in their mind;
Darkness but half his work will do ;

'Tis not enough; he must find quiet too.

5.

The man, who, in all wishes he does make,
Does only nature's counsel take,
That wise and happy man will never fear

The evil aspects of the year;
Nor tremble, though two comets should
He does not look in almanacks, to see
Whether he fortunate shall be;

appear:

Let Mars and Saturn in the heavens conjoin,
And what they please against the world design,
So Jupiter within him shine.

6.

If of your pleasures and desires no end be found, God to your cares and fears will set no bound.

What would content you? who can tell?

Ye fear so much to lose what

As if ye lik'd it well:

ye

have got,

Ye strive for more, as if ye lik'd it not.

Go, level hills, and fill up seas,

Spare nought that may your wanton fancy please; But, trust me, when ye have done all this,

Much will be missing still, and much will be amiss.

VII.

OF AVARICE.

THERE are two sorts of avarice: the one is but of a bastard kind, and that is, the rapacious appetite of gain; not for its own sake, but for the pleasure of refunding it immediately through all the channels of pride and luxury: the other is the true kind, and properly so called; which is a restless and unsatiable desire of riches, not for any farther end or use, but only to hoard, and preserve, and perpetually increase them. The covetous man, of the first kind, is like a greedy ostrich, which devours any metal; but it is with an intent to feed upon it, and in effect it makes a shift to digest and excern it. The second is like the foolish chough, which loves to steal money only to hide it. The first does much harm to mankind; and a little good too, to some few: the second does good to none; no, not to himself. The first can make no excuse to God, or angels, or rational men, for his actions: the second can give no reason or colour, not to the devil himself, for what he does;

he is a slave to Mammon, without wages. The first makes a shift to be beloved; ay, and envied, too, by some people the second is the universal object of hatred and contempt. There is no vice has been so pelted with good sentences, and especially by the poets, who have pursued it with stories and fables, and allegories, and allusions; and moved, as we say, every stone to fling at it: among all which, I do not remember a more fine and gentleman-like correction than that which was given it by one line of Ovid : "Desunt luxuriæ multa, avaritiæ omnia."

Much is wanting to luxury, all to avarice.

To which saying, I have a mind to add one member, and tender it thus ;

Poverty wants some, luxury many, avarice all things.

Somebody says of a virtuous and wise man, "that having nothing, he has all:" this is just his antipode, who, having all things, yet has nothing. He is a guardian eunuch to his beloved gold: "audivi eos amatores esse maximos, sed nil potesse."

the fondest lovers, but impotent to enjoy.

They are

And, oh, what man's condition can be worse
Than his, whom plenty starves, and blessings curse;

The beggars but a common fate deplore,

The rich poor man's emphatically poor.

I wonder how it comes to pass, that there has never