Money. Riches. Wealth.
Gold is the greatest God: tho’ yet we see
No Temples rais’d to Money’s Majesty,
No Altars fuming to her Pow’r divine,
Such as to Valour, Peace and Virtue shine,
And Faith, and Concord.–
Wouldst thou live well? who’d not? then quickly strive,
And now since Virtue only this can give,
Leave all thy false Delights, and that pursue.–
But if the wild Opinion You approve,
That Words make Virtue, just as Trees a Grove:
Then get one thousand Talents, then one more,
And then another, and then square the Store:
For by this Empress Wealth is all bestow’d,
A rich and honest Wife, and ev’ry Good,
Beauty, and Friends, and Nobleness of Blood.
The rich and moneyed Man hath ev’ry Grace,
Persuasion in his Tongue, and Venus in his Face.–
The Saying’s true, and hath been often told,
Gold excells Silver, heav’nly Virtue Gold.–
O Romans! Romans! Gold must first be sought,
Then Virtue: that’s but worth a second Thought.
This is the Tune of ev’ry trading Fool:
Old Men, and ev’ry Boy, repeats this Rule,
That with his Books and Satchel goes to School.–
Whoe’er is wealthy, may securely sail,
For as he wills kind Fortune gives the Gale:
May Danae wed, and rival am’rous Jove,
Nay make her Father Pander to his Love:
May be a Poet, Preacher, Lawyer too,
By bawling win the Cause he does not know,
And beyond Cato’s Fame for Wisdom go.
To Wealth, the Judge, obedient, gives the Cause,
And, as thou pay’st him, turns and winds the Laws:
Acquire but Riches, and when that is done,
Be whom Thou wilt, Somers, or Littleton.
Gold governs all: get that, and Thou mayst have
Whate’er thy most unbounded Wishes crave:
In short, whoever is of that possest,
Has Jove himself inclos’d within his Chest.–
Nor House, nor Lands, nor Heaps of Plate, or Gold,
Can cure a Fever’s Heat, or Ague’s Cold,
Or free the Mind from Cares. He must have Health,
He must be well, that would enjoy his Wealth.
Whoe’er desires, or fears, diseas’d in Mind,
Wealth profits him as Pictures do the Blind,
Plaisters the gouty Feet, or Musick’s Airs
And charming Sounds, the stuft and aking Ears.–
O You immortal Gods! what signifies this Money?–
Not equal Light th’ unequal Moon adorns,
Or in her wexing, or her waining Horns:
For ev’ry Day she wains her Face is less,
But gathering into Globe, she fattens at Increase.–
The Moon commands the Seas, and drives the Main
Far o’er the Shores, then draws it back again:
But most her Influence agitates the Streams,
When opposite she views her Brother’s Beams:
Or, when she near in close Conjunction rides,
She rears the Flood, and swells the flowing Tides:
Or, when attending on his yearly Race,
The Equinoctial sees her borrow’d Face.–
Lo! from the rosy East her purple Doors
The Morn unfolds, adorn’d with blushing Flow’rs:
The lessen’d Stars draw off, and disappear,
Whose bright Battalions lastly Lucifer.
Brings up, and quits his Station in the Rear.–
— Now the Day
Returning, with the Morning Star arose:
And from the Pole Aurora’s Dawn dispell’d
The dewy Shades.–
Now ev’ry Star before Aurora flies,
Whose glowing Blushes streak the purple Skies.–
Aurora, from Tithonus’ Saffron Bed
Now rising, sprinkled o’er the World with Light.–
And now the Ocean redden’d with the Rays:
And in her rosy Car the blushing Morn
Shone from the Sky.–
And now Aurora, Harbinger of Day,
Rose from the saffron Bed where Tithon lay;
And sprinkled o’er the World with new–born Light:
The Sun now shining, all Things brought to Sight.–
Mean while returning Day roll’d on,
And with it’s full–born Light dispell’d the Shades.–
Mean while Aurora, with new rising Light,
Restor’d the Cares and Labours of the Day
To wretched Mortals.–
The Morn ensuing from the Mountain’s Height,
Had scarcely spread the Skies with rosy Light:
Th’ Etherial Coursers bounding from the Sea,
From out their flaming Nostrils breath’d the Day.–
Now Morn begins to dawn: the Sun’s bright Fire
Gilds the high Mountains.–
And now, o’er Ida with an early Ray,
Flames the bright Star, that leads the golden Day.–
Mean while Aurora rising leaves the Sea.–
Now thro’ Night’s Shade the early Dawning broke,
And changing Skies the Sun’s Approach bespoke:
But yet the Morn was dress’d in dusky White,
Nor purpled o’er the East with ruddy Light.
At length the Pleiads fading Beams gave Way,
And dull Bootes languish’d into Day:
Each larger Star withdrew his fainting Head,
And Lucifer from stronger Phoebus fled.–
The Morn had chac’d the dewy Shades away,
And o’er the World advanc’d the Lamp of Day.–
The blushing Morn had bid the Stars retreat.–
Soon as the Morn, fresh smiling from the East,
Had put the Stars to flight.–
The rising Morning Star, with glory bright,
Did sluggish Mortals to new Toils invite.–
Now shone the Morning Star in bright Array,
To vanquish Night, and usher in the Day.–
Now Day’s bright Beams the various Earth disclose,
And o’er the fading Stars the Sun arose.–
Aurora rising from old Tithon’s Bed,
Does o’er the Eastern Skies her Roses spread.
Stay, beauteous Morning! whither dost Thou haste?
Why dost Thou drive thy Chariot on so fast?
Folded I lie in my dear Mistress’ Arms,
And all her Soul is mine, and all her Charms.
I now am to her panting Bosom press’d,
And now, if ever Lover was, am bless’d.
As yet sweet Sleep sits heavy on our Eyes,
And chilling Dews, and Birds forbid to rise.
Stay, beauteous Morning! for to Lovesick Maids,
And happy Youths, how grateful are these Shades!
Ah stay! and do not from the blushing East,
With dawning Glories break our balmy Rest!
When Night’s black Mantle does those Glories hide,
The Pilot by the Stars his Ship can guide:
And in mid–Sea a certain Course pursue,
As safe, as when he has thy Sun in view.
Thou dost the weary Traveller awake:
Tho’ to the Down his heavy Head inclines,
Up he must lift it, for the Morning shines.
The Soldier braces on his brazen Shield,
Quits his warm Tent, and fits him for the Field.
The lab’ring Hind his Harrow takes, or now
Yokes the reluctant Oxen to the Plow.
The Boy half wak’d, and rubbing still his Eyes,
Is loath alike to go to School, or rise:
While o’er his Task, he does imperfect, nod,
He fears the Ferula, and dreads the Rod.
The Bridegroom starting from his Bride’s Embrace
Runs to the Lawyer to consult his Case:
A Word is wanting in the Marriage–Deed,
And what, to save the Portion, must he plead?
Now hungry Serjeants quit their tempting Ease,
To haunt the crowded Courts, and pick up Fees,
Thy Rise brings Labour to the Female Band,
And puts the Spindle in the Spinster’s Hand.
Light are these Toils, and little is the Pain
To rise to work, and rest at Night again:
But who, that knows Love’s dear transporting Joys,
Can from the Arms of Beauty bear to rise?–
Soon as Aurora ushers in the Morn,
And o’er the World displays the dawning Day:
When Birds of various Kinds fly thro’ the Groves,
And with their warbling Musick fill the Skies:
How swiftly then, o’er ev’ry Thing alike,
The rising Sun pours forth his glorious Ray,
Is known full well, and manifest to All.–
Stiff with Eternal Ice, and hid in Snow,
That fell a thousand Centuries agoe,
The Mountain stands: nor can the rising Sun
Unfix her Frosts, and teach them how to run.
Deep, as the dark Infernal Waters lie,
From the bright Regions of the chearful Sky,
So far the proud ascending Rocks invade
Heav’n’s upper Realms, and cast a dreadful Shade:
No Spring, nor Summer, on the Mountain seen,
Smiles with gay Fruits, or with delightful Green;
But hoary Winter, unadorn’d, and bare,
Dwells in the dire Retreat, and freezes there.
There she assembles all her blackest Storms,
And the rude Hail in rattling Tempests forms:
Thither the loud tumultuous Winds resort,
And on the Mountain keep their boist’rous Court,
That in thick Show’rs her rocky Summit shrowds,
And darkens all the broken View with Clouds.–
From Steep to Steep the Troops advanc’d with Pain,
In hopes at last the topmost Cliff to gain:
But still by new Ascents the Mountain grew,
And a fresh Toil presented to their View.–
Mourning for the Dead.
See Grief. Lamentation.
Stretch’d on the Floor the wretched Father lies:
His hoary Hair, and wrinkled Cheeks, besmears,
And Heav’n upbraids, that gave him length of Years.
Had I an hundred Tongues, a Wit so large,
As could their hundred Offices discharge:
Had Phoebus all his Helicon bestow’d,
In all the Streams inspiring all the God:
Those Tongues, that Wit, those Streams, that God, in vain.
Would offer to describe his Sister’s Pain.
Their Breasts they beat with many a bruising Blow,
Till they turn livid, and defile the Snow.
The Corpse they cherish, while the Corpse remains,
And fondly chafe with unavailing Pains;
And when to fun’ral Flames ’tis borne away,
They kiss the Bed on which the Body lay.
And when those fun’ral Flames no longer burn,
(The Dust compos’d within a pious Urn)
Ev’n in that Urn their Brother they confess,
And hug it in their Arms, and to their Bosom press.
His Tomb is rais’d: then stretch’d along the Ground,
Those living Monuments his Tomb surround:
Ev’n to his Name, inscrib’d, their Tears they pay,
And Kisses almost wear his Name away.–
But King Evander by no friendly Force
Could be restrain’d: Distracted thro’ the Midst
He rushes, falls on Pallas’ breathless Corpse
Stretch’d on the standing Bier, and clinging close
Hugs him with Groans and Tears: At length his Words,
Long choak’d with Grief, a painful Passage found.
Not such, O Pallas! was thy Promise giv’n
To thy unhappy Sire: that with Reserve,
And Caution, thou would’st trust the bloody Field.
O dire First–Fruits of War!–ill–fated Youth!–
Mournful Beginnings!–and my Pray’rs and Vows
Unheard by all the Powers divine!–And Thou,
Celestial Saint, dear Partner of my Bed,
Bless’d in thy Death! nor to this Woe reserv’d!
I by a disproportion’d Length of Life
Usurp on Nature, and survive my Son.–
–With Dust he soils
His hoary Hair, and stretches both his Hands
To Heav’n: and clinging hugs the bloody Coarse.–
So when some gen’rous Youth resigns his Breath,
And parting sinks in the last Pangs of Death;
With ghastly Eyes, and many a lift–up Hand,
Around his Bed the still Attendants stand:
No Tongue as yet presumes his Fate to tell,
Nor speaks aloud the solemn last Farewell.
As yet the Mother by her Darling lies,
Nor breaks, lamenting, into frantic Cries:
And tho’ he stiffens in her fond Embrace,
His Eyes are set, and deadly pale his Face,
Horror a while prevents the swelling Tear:
Nor is her Passion Grief, as yet, but Fear.
In one fix’d Posture motionless she keeps,
And wonders at her Woe before she weeps.–
But why should Tombs be built, or Urns be made?
Does Grief like mine require their feeble Aid?
Is he not lodg’d, poor Wretch! within thy Heart,
And fix’d in every dearest vital Part?
O’er Monuments surviving Wives may grieve,
She ne’er will need them, who disdains to live.–
Proud Calydon is overwhelm’d with Woe,
And Tears from Young and Old unbounded flow:
All Ranks alike excessive Sorrow show.
Their Breasts the rev’rend Matrons beat, and tare
With loud Laments, their long dishevell’d Hair.–
–Loud Cries ascend the vaulted Roof:
With shrill Laments, with Groans, and female Shrieks
The Houses ring: and Wailings fill the Sky.–
But most of all in King Latinus’ Court,
And in the royal City, Sorrow reigns,
And wildest Consternation: Aged Dames,
And hapless Brides, and Sisters drown’d in Tears,
And wretched Orphans, curse the wasteful War.–
–The royal Maid Lavinia first
Her rosy Cheeks, and beauteous Tresses tares:
Then all the rest run madding round the Court:
And with loud Shrieks the spacious Palace rings.
Hence the dire Fame o’er all the City spreads:
Their Spirits sink.–Confounded at the Fates,
His City’s Ruin, and his Consort’s Death,
With Garments rent, Latinus goes, and all
With Dust deforms his hoary ruffled Hair.–
Mean time the Shores, the Seas, and Skies around,
With mournful Cries for Pompey’s Death resound.
But when the sad Cornelia first appear’d,
When on the Deck her sorrowing Head she rear’d,
Her Locks hung rudely o’er the Matron’s Face,
With all the Pomp of Grief’s disorder’d Grace:
When they beheld her, wasted quite with Woe,
And spent with Tears, that never cease to flow,
Again they feel their Loss, again complain,
And Heav’n and Earth ring with their Cries again.–
Justice suspends her Course in mournful Rome,
And all the noisy Courts at once are dumb:
No Honours shine in the distinguish’d Weed,
Nor Rods the purple Magistrate preceed.
The Matrons sad, their rich Attire lay by,
And to the Temples madly crouding fly:
Some on the Shrines their gushing Sorrows pour,
Some dash their Breasts against the marble Floor:
Some on the sacred Thresholds rend their Hair,
And seek the Gods with Cries instead of Pray’r.
Nor Jove receiv’d the mournful Suppliants all,
In ev’ry Fane, on ev’ry Pow’r they call.-
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Based on Keywords: deforms, satchel, lovesick, pompey, bruising, conjunction, choak, suppliants, first-fruits, upbraids, diseas