EVERY
MAN
THE
ARCHITECT
of
his
own
FORTUNE
:
OR
THE
ART
OF
RISING
IN
THE
CHURCH
.
A
SATYRE
.
By
Mr.
SCOTT
,
of
Trinity-College
,
Cambridge
.
A
DIALOGUE
betwixt
a
POET
and
his
FRIEND
.
F.
GOOD
friend
,
forbear
—
the
world
will
say
'tis
spite
,
Or
disappointment
goads
you
thus
to
write
—
Some
lord
hath
frown'd
;
some
bishop
past
dispute
At
surly
distance
spurn'd
your
eager
suit
,
Prefer'd
a
dull
vile
clod
of
noble
earth
,
And
left
neglected
genius
,
wit
,
and
worth
.
P.
Regards
it
me
what
snarling
critics
say
?
'Tis
honest
indignation
points
the
way
.
Thanks
to
my
stars
my
infant
sleeps
are
o'er
,
And
dreams
delusive
catch
my
thoughts
no
more
.
Let
clumsy
DOGMATUS
,
with
simp'ring
face
,
Supply
the
nurse's
,
or
the
footman's
place
,
Make
coffee
,
when
my
lady
calls
,
or
whey
,
And
fetch
,
and
carry
,
like
a
two-leg'd
tray
;
Let
blust'ring
GNATHO
swear
with
patriot
rage
,
To
poor
,
old
,
tott'ring
TIMON
bent
with
age
,
"
Had
you
,
my
lord
,
the
horse
at
MINDEN
led
,
"
'Sdeath
,
what
destruction
would
your
grace
have
made
?
"
Like
Wantley's
dragon
you
had
roar'd
,
and
thunder'd
,
"
And
eat'n
up
Frenchmen
hundred
after
hundred
;
"
Thus
mean
and
vile
let
others
live
,
not
I
,
Who
scorn
to
flatter
,
and
who
fear
to
lye
.
What
honest
man
—
F.
Stop
,
or
you
ne'er
can
thrive
—
Sure
you're
the
strangest
,
squeamish
wretch
alive
!
What
,
in
the
name
of
wonder
,
friend
,
have
you
,
In
life's
low
vale
,
with
honesty
to
do
?
'Tis
a
dead
weight
,
that
will
retard
you
still
,
Oft
as
you
strive
to
clamber
up
the
hill
.
Strip
,
and
be
wise
—
strip
off
all
bashful
pride
,
Throw
cumbrous
honour
,
virtue
,
truth
aside
,
Trust
up
,
and
girt
like
VIRRO
,
mend
your
pace
,
The
first
,
the
nimblest
scoundrel
in
the
race
.
Go
copy
TREBIUS
—
P.
Copy
TREBIUS
?
—
Hum
—
And
forfeit
peace
for
all
my
life
to
come
.
Should
I
devote
my
sister's
virgin
charms
To
the
vile
lewdness
of
a
patron's
arms
,
Too
sure
my
father's
injur'd
ghost
would
rise
,
Rage
on
his
brow
,
and
horrour
in
his
eyes
;
Would
haunt
,
would
goad
me
in
the
social
hall
,
Or
break
my
rest
—
tho'
slumb'ring
in
a
stall
.
Oh
gracious
God
,
of
what
thin
flimsy
gear
Is
some
men's
conscience
?
—
F.
Hold
,
you're
too
severe
—
Think
when
temptations
ev'ry
sense
assail
,
How
strong
they
prove
,
and
human
flesh
how
frail
!
When
satan
came
,
by
righteous
heav'n
ordain'd
To
tempt
the
leader
of
the
Christian
band
,
He
drew
,
he
caught
him
from
the
barren
waste
,
And
on
the
temple's
tow'ring
summit
plac'd
;
And
nowadays
,
or
sage
experience
lies
,
From
church
preferments
great
temptations
rise
.
Spare
TREBIUS
then
—
e'en
you
yourself
may
yield
—
P.
Not
,
friend
,
'till
vanquish'd
reason
quits
the
field
:
Then
I
,
poor
madman
,
'midst
the
mad
and
vain
,
May
Judas-like
betray
my
God
for
gain
;
At
HELLUO's
board
,
where
smokes
th'
eternal
treat
,
And
all
the
fat
on
earth
bow
down
,
and
eat
,
A
genuine
son
of
LEVI
may
adore
The
golden
calf
,
as
AARON
did
before
.
Then
welcome
the
full
levee
,
where
resort
Crouds
of
all
ranks
to
pay
their
morning
court
,
The
well-rob'd
dean
with
face
so
sleek
,
and
fair
,
And
tatter'd
CODRUS
pale
and
wan
with
care
,
Whose
yearly-breeding
wife
,
in
mean
attire
,
To
feed
her
hungry
brats
must
spin
for
hire
.
Hail
medley
dome
,
where
like
the
ark
we
find
Clean
,
and
unclean
,
of
ev'ry
sort
and
kind
!
Hail
medley
dome
,
where
three
whole
hours
together
,
(
Shiv'ring
in
cold
,
and
faint
in
sultry
weather
)
We
brook
,
athirst
and
hungry
,
all
delay
,
And
wear
in
expectation
life
away
!
But
hush
!
in
comes
my
lord
—
important
,
big
,
Squints
thro'
his
glass
,
and
bustling
shakes
his
wig
,
Whose
saucy
curls
,
confin'd
in
triple
tye
,
With
constant
work
his
busy
hands
supply
.
He
stops
,
bows
,
stares
—
and
whispers
out
aloud
"
What
spark
is
you
,
that
jostles
thro'
the
croud
?
"
Sir
William's
heir
—
"
enough
—
my
dear
,
good
friend
,
"
Sir
William
liv'd
—
I
think
—
at
Ponder's
end
;
"
Yes
—
yes
—
Sir
William
liv'd
"
—
Then
on
he
goes
,
And
whispering
this
grand
secret
crams
his
nose
Into
your
wig
,
and
squeezing
every
hand
,
"
'Tis
mine
to
serve
you
,
Sir
—
Your's
to
command
"
—
Thus
kindly
breathing
many
a
promise
fair
,
He
feeds
two
rows
of
gaping
fools
with
air
;
Unmeaning
gabbles
set
rotines
of
speech
,
As
papists
pray
,
or
prelates
us'd
to
preach
,
Makes
himself
o'er
in
trust
,
to
keep
his
ground
,
And
FAIRLY
CULLS
HIS
CREDITORS
ALL
ROUND
.
With
warm
delight
his
words
poor
CODRUS
hears
,
Sweet
as
the
fancy'd
music
of
the
spheres
;
Then
trudges
jocund
home
thro'
mire
and
clay
,
While
pleasing
thoughts
beguile
the
long
long
way
;
A
snug
warm
living
skims
before
his
eyes
,
His
tythe
pig
gruntles
,
and
his
grey
goose
flies
;
His
lonely
shatter'd
cot
,
all
patcht
with
mud
,
And
hem'd
around
by
many
a
fragrant
flood
,
Chang'd
to
a
neat
,
and
modern
house
he
sees
,
Built
on
high
ground
,
and
shelter'd
well
with
trees
;
Spacious
in
front
the
chequer'd
lawns
extend
,
With
useful
ponds
,
and
gardens
at
the
end
,
Where
art
and
nature
kindly
join
to
bring
The
fruits
of
Autumn
,
and
the
flowers
of
Spring
.
No
more
a
sun-burnt
bob
the
preacher
wears
,
Or
coat
of
serge
,
where
ev'ry
thread
appears
:
Behold
him
deckt
in
spruce
and
trim
array
,
With
cassock
short
,
and
vest
of
raven-grey
;
In
powder'd
pomp
the
spacious
grizzle
flows
,
And
the
broad
beaver
trembles
o'er
his
nose
.
Ah
dear
delusions
tempt
his
thoughts
no
more
,
Leave
him
untortur'd
by
desire
,
though
poor
!
What
can
advance
,
in
these
degenerate
days
,
When
gold
,
or
int'rest
all
preferment
sways
,
A
wretch
unblest
by
Fortune
,
and
by
birth
?
Alas
,
not
TERRICK's
parts
,
or
TALBOT's
worth
!
Else
long
,
long
since
had
honest
BUTLER
shone
High
in
the
church
religion's
spotless
sun
;
Had
beam'd
around
his
friendly
light
to
chear
The
lonely
,
wayworn
,
wandring
traveller
;
Chac'd
errour's
black
and
baleful
shades
away
,
And
pour'd
thro'
every
mind
resistless
day
.
Alas
,
the
change
!
far
in
a
lowly
vale
,
'Midst
straggling
huts
,
where
some
few
peasants
dwell
,
He
lives
in
virtue
rich
,
in
fortune
poor
,
And
treads
the
path
his
master
trod
before
.
Oh
great
,
good
man
,
to
chear
without
request
The
drooping
heart
,
and
sooth
the
troubled
breast
;
With
cords
of
love
the
wayward
sheep
to
hold
,
And
draw
the
lost
,
and
wandring
to
the
fold
;
To
spend
so
little
,
yet
have
some
to
spare
;
To
feed
the
hungry
,
and
to
cloath
the
bare
;
To
visit
beds
of
sickness
in
the
night
,
When
rains
descend
,
and
rolling
thunders
fright
,
There
death
deprive
of
all
his
terrours
foul
,
And
sing
soft
requiems
to
the
parting
soul
!
Blush
,
blush
for
shame
!
—
Your
heads
,
ye
Pastors
,
hide
,
Ye
pamper'd
sons
of
luxury
and
pride
,
Who
leave
to
prowling
wolves
your
helpless
care
,
And
truck
preferments
at
the
public
fair
;
In
whose
fat
corps
the
soul
supinely
lies
,
Snug
at
her
ease
,
and
wondrous
loth
to
rise
!
F.
Friend
,
friend
,
you're
warm
—
why
this
is
downright
spleen
,
You
flout
the
fat
,
because
yourself
are
lean
:
Yet
laugh
to
see
behind
the
silver
mace
Black-brow'd
CORNUTUS
with
his
starveling
face
,
A
wretch
so
worn
with
penury
and
pride
,
His
very
bones
stand
staring
thro'
his
hide
.
Why
chuse
the
church
,
if
petulant
and
vain
You
proudly
shun
the
paths
that
lead
to
gain
,
Yet
rack'd
with
envy
,
when
your
brethren
rise
,
Revile
the
prudent
arts
that
you
despise
?
Better
some
dirty
,
vile
,
mechanic
trade
,
Cobler
,
or
smith
—
a
fortune
might
be
made
;
The
cross-leg'd
wretch
,
who
stitches
up
the
gown
,
Is
of
more
worth
than
half
the
clerks
in
town
:
And
laughs
with
purse-proud
insolence
to
see
The
needy
curate's
full-sleev'd
dignity
.
—
P.
Why
chuse
the
church
?
A
father's
prudent
voice
Determin'd
,
friend
,
and
dignify'd
the
choice
:
To
thee
,
religion
,
thro'
the
tranquil
road
,
Himself
with
honour
and
with
virtue
trod
,
He
led
me
on
—
and
know
,
no
slave
to
gain
,
Undow'r'd
I
took
thee
,
and
undow'r'd
retain
.
What
?
Durst
the
blind
philosopher
of
yore
Chuse
thy
half-sister
Virtue
,
vile
and
poor
,
Chuse
her
begirt
with
all
the
ghastly
train
Of
ills
,
contempt
,
and
ridicule
,
and
pain
?
And
shall
not
I
,
O
dear
celestial
dame
,
Love
thee
with
all
my
soul's
devoutest
flame
?
Shall
I
not
gaze
,
and
doat
upon
thy
charms
,
And
fly
to
catch
the
heav'n
within
thy
arms
?
O
my
fair
mistress
,
lovelier
to
be
seen
Than
the
chaste
lily
,
opening
on
the
green
;
Sweet
as
the
blushing
rose
in
SHARON's
vale
,
And
soft
as
IDUMEA's
balmy
gale
!
Of
thee
enamour'd
martyr'd
heroes
stood
Firm
to
their
faith
,
and
constant
ev'n
to
blood
;
No
views
of
fame
,
no
fears
of
sad
disgrace
,
Had
pow'r
to
tear
them
from
thy
lov'd
embrace
,
Wrapt
up
in
thee
,
tho'
harlots
stalkt
abroad
,
And
persecution
shook
her
iron
rod
!
Peace
to
their
souls
!
—
But
tell
me
,
gentle
maid
,
Oh
tell
me
are
thy
beauties
all
decay'd
?
Hath
time's
foul
canker
ev'ry
grace
devour'd
?
Thy
virgin
charms
hath
ignorance
deflow'r'd
?
That
thus
thou
wander'st
helpless
and
forlorn
,
Of
knaves
the
hatred
,
and
of
fools
the
scorn
!
F.
Still
knave
,
and
fool
?
—
For
God's
sake
,
Sir
,
refrain
!
This
petulance
of
pride
will
prove
your
bane
.
What
!
you're
averse
to
dash
thro'
thick
and
thin
?
Try
cleaner
ways
—
'tis
done
,
if
you
begin
.
Go
with
soft
flattery
,
studious
to
oblige
,
Some
dull
,
and
self-admiring
lord
besiege
,
And
like
the
dove
,
to
MECCA's
prophet
dear
,
Pick
a
good
living
from
your
patron's
ear
:
GULLION
succeeded
thus
,
and
so
may
you
—
But
railing
,
railing
!
—
Friend
,
it
ne'er
can
do
.
P.
Good
heav'n
forbid
that
I
a
plain
blunt
man
,
Who
cannot
fawn
,
and
loath
the
wretch
who
can
,
Should
brook
a
trencher-chaplain
at
the
board
,
The
loud
horse-laugh
,
and
raillery
of
my
lord
;
Slave
to
his
jokes
,
his
passion
,
and
his
pride
,
A
dull
tame
fool
for
lacquies
to
deride
,
Who
snort
around
to
hear
the
wretch
abuse
My
person
,
morals
,
family
,
and
muse
!
Shall
I
such
base
Egyptian
bondage
bear
,
And
eat
my
heart
thro'
sorrow
,
grief
,
and
care
?
For
twice
sev'n
tedious
years
wait
,
watch
,
ride
,
run
,
Nor
dare
to
live
,
or
speak
,
or
think
my
own
?
Observe
with
awe
that
fickle
vane
his
mind
,
That
shifts
,
and
changes
with
the
changeful
wind
?
Read
ev'ry
look
,
each
twinkling
of
his
eye
,
And
thence
divine
the
doubtful
augury
?
No
PHARAOH
no
!
—
Here
in
this
calm
retreat
,
Where
ev'ry
muse
,
and
virtue
fix
their
seat
,
Here
let
me
shun
each
lordling
proud
and
vain
,
And
scorn
the
world
ere
scorn'd
by
it
again
!
Ye
happier
few
,
that
in
this
stately
dome
Where
still
the
soul
of
NEWTON
deigns
to
roam
,
Inspires
each
youthful
candidate
for
fame
,
His
noonday
vision
,
and
his
midnight
dream
;
Ye
happier
few
,
by
regal
bounty
fed
,
Here
eat
in
privacy
and
peace
your
bread
;
Nor
tempt
the
world
,
that
monster-bearing
deep
,
Where
husht
in
grim
repose
the
tempests
sleep
,
Where
rocks
,
and
sands
,
dread
ministers
of
fate
,
To
whelm
the
pilot's
hopes
in
ambush
wait
.
On
a
huge
hill
,
that
braves
the
neighbouring
sky
,
Washt
by
the
sable
gulph
of
infamy
,
Preferment's
temple
stands
;
the
base
how
wide
,
How
steep
the
top
,
how
cragged
ev'ry
side
!
Compact
of
ice
the
dazzling
mountain
glows
,
Like
rocks
of
crystal
,
or
Lapponian
snows
,
While
all
around
the
storm-clad
whirlwind
rides
,
Dread
thunder
breaks
,
and
livid
lightning
glides
,
Hither
by
hope
enliven'd
crouds
repair
,
Thick
as
the
noontide
swarms
that
float
in
air
;
Dean
jostles
dean
,
each
suffragan
his
brother
,
And
half
the
jealous
mob
keeps
down
the
other
.
Ah
little
knows
the
wretch
,
that
hath
not
try'd
,
What
hell
it
is
this
shouldring
throng
to
bide
,
Where
garish
art
,
and
falsehood
win
the
day
,
And
simple
single
truth
is
spurn'd
away
:
Where
round
,
and
round
,
with
painful
steps
and
slow
,
Whoe'er
would
scale
the
sudden
height
must
go
;
Catch
ev'ry
twig
,
each
brake
and
op'ning
trace
,
Pull
down
his
friend
,
nay
father
from
his
place
,
And
raise
himself
by
others
foul
disgrace
.
Yet
some
there
are
,
gay
Folly's
flutt'ring
train
,
That
free
from
care
and
toil
the
summit
gain
,
Sublimely
soar
on
fortune's
partial
wind
,
And
leave
the
sons
of
Science
far
behind
.
Thus
straws
and
feathers
easily
can
fly
,
And
the
light
scale
is
sure
to
mount
on
high
;
Thin
air-blown
bubbles
with
each
breath
are
born
,
And
wind
will
raise
the
chaff
,
that
leaves
the
corn
.
Others
again
with
crouds
contentious
strive
,
And
thro'
mere
dint
of
opposition
thrive
;
Stiff
in
opinion
,
active
,
restless
wights
,
They
rise
against
the
wind
like
paper
kites
:
'Twas
thus
proud
RAMUS
to
the
mitre
flew
,
Opposing
,
and
oppos'd
—
F.
And
thus
must
you
—
If
opposition
,
faction
,
broils
prevail
,
Take
courage
,
friend
,
for
sure
you
ne'er
can
fail
.
Misguided
youth
,
is
satyre
thus
your
turn
!
Haste
while
the
baleful
flames
of
party
burn
,
In
hist'ry
read
go
join
the
grand
dispute
,
And
give
one
hireling
more
to
PITT
,
or
BUTE
.
Oh
would
you
paint
his
lordship's
jerkin
o'er
With
imps
,
and
fiends
(
like
base
inquisitor
)
Then
boldly
hang
him
out
to
public
view
,
The
scorn
and
laughter
of
the
gaping
crew
,
How
G**A's
sons
would
—
P.
What
?
F.
Exult
for
joy
,
And
lift
your
grateful
praises
to
the
sky
.
P.
Her
sons
exult
?
your
men
of
parts
and
skill
Change
like
their
dress
,
their
principles
at
will
,
Where
Mammon
calls
with
haste
obsequious
run
,
And
bow
like
Persians
to
the
rising
sun
.
Too
long
alas
o'er
Britain's
bleeding
land
Hath
fell
corruption
wav'd
her
iron
hand
,
Too
long
possest
a
monarch's
patient
ear
,
While
all
the
sons
of
freedom
shrunk
with
fear
.
Is
there
then
one
,
whose
breast
religion
warms
,
And
virtue
decks
with
all
her
brightest
charms
;
Whose
fiery
glance
the
loathsome
den
pervades
,
Where
vice
,
and
foul
corruption
sculk
in
shades
;
True
to
his
king
,
and
to
the
public
just
,
No
dupe
to
passion
,
and
no
slave
to
lust
;
Whom
all
the
good
revere
,
the
vile
abuse
,
A
friend
to
learning
,
and
the
gentle
muse
;
Scotchman
,
or
Teague
—
be
this
his
patriot
view
,
I'll
praise
him
,
love
him
,
friend
,
and
so
shall
you
.
Curst
be
the
lines
(
tho'
ev'ry
THESPIAN
maid
Come
uninvoked
,
and
lend
her
timely
aid
,
View
them
,
like
THETIS
,
with
a
mother's
eye
,
And
dip
them
o'er
in
dews
of
CASTALY
)
Curst
be
the
lines
,
that
pow'rful
vice
adorn
,
Or
treat
fair
virtue
,
and
her
friends
with
scorn
:
Let
'em
cloath
candles
,
wrap
up
cheese
,
line
trunks
;
Or
flutt'ring
on
a
rail
,
'midst
rogues
and
punks
,
Ne'er
meet
the
mild
judicious
critic's
praise
,
But
die
,
like
those
that
FANNY
sings
or
says
:
FANNY
,
dull
wight
,
to
whom
the
ghost
appears
Of
murder'd
HORACE
,
pale
and
wan
with
tears
;
FANNY
,
dull
wight
,
a
Mammon-serving
slave
,
Half
politician
,
atheist
,
parson
,
knave
,
That
drunk
each
night
,
and
liquor'd
ev'ry
chink
,
Dyes
his
red
face
in
port
,
and
his
black
soul
in
ink
.
No
sly
fanatic
,
no
enthusiast
wild
,
No
party
tool
,
beguiling
and
beguil'd
,
No
slave
to
pride
,
no
canting
pimp
to
pow'r
,
Nor
rigid
churchman
,
nor
dissenter
sour
,
No
fawning
flatterer
to
the
base
and
vain
,
No
timist
vile
,
or
worshipper
of
gain
;
When
gay
not
dissolute
,
grave
not
severe
,
Tho'
learn'd
no
pedant
,
civil
tho'
sincere
;
Nor
mean
nor
haughty
,
be
one
preacher's
praise
That
—
if
he
rise
,
he
rise
by
manly
ways
:
Yes
,
he
abhors
each
sordid
selfish
view
,
And
dreads
the
paths
your
men
of
art
pursue
;
Who
trust
some
wand'ring
meteor's
dubious
ray
,
And
fly
like
owls
from
truth's
meridian
day
.
F.
Alas
,
Alas
!
I
plainly
,
friend
,
foresee
In
points
like
these
we
never
shall
agree
.
Too
sure
debar'd
from
all
the
joys
of
life
,
From
heav'n's
best
gifts
,
a
living
,
and
a
wife
,
Chain'd
to
a
college
you
must
waste
your
days
,
(
Wrapt
up
in
monkish
indolence
,
and
ease
,
)
In
one
dull
round
of
sleeping
,
eating
,
drinking
,
A
foe
to
care
,
but
more
a
foe
to
thinking
.
There
when
ten
lustrums
are
supinely
spent
In
ENVIOUS
SLOTH
,
AND
MOPISH
DISCONTENT
;
When
not
one
friend
,
one
comfort
more
remains
;
But
slowly
creeps
the
cold
blood
thro'
your
veins
,
And
palsy'd
hands
,
and
tott'ring
knees
betray
An
helpless
state
of
nature
in
decay
;
While
froward
youth
derides
your
squalid
age
,
And
longs
to
shove
you
trembling
off
the
stage
;
Then
then
you'll
blame
your
conduct
—
but
too
late
,
And
curse
your
enemies
,
and
friends
,
and
fate
.
P.
Better
be
worn
with
age
,
with
ills
opprest
,
Distrest
in
fame
,
in
fortune
too
distrest
;
Better
unknown
,
and
unlamented
die
,
With
no
kind
friend
to
close
the
parting
eye
,
(
So
all
is
calm
,
and
undisturb'd
within
)
Than
feel
,
and
fear
the
biting
pangs
of
sin
.
For
oh
what
odds
,
the
curtain
once
withdrawn
,
Betwixt
a
saint
in
rags
,
and
rev'rend
knave
in
lawn
?