AN
EPISTLE
To
the
Right
Honourable
RICHARD
Earl
of
BURLINGTON
.
'TIS
strange
,
the
Miser
should
his
Cares
imploy
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
Fountain
Statues
,
and
for
Curio
Coins
,
Rare
Monkish
Manuscripts
for
Hearne
alone
,
And
Books
for
Mead
,
and
Rarities
for
Sloan
.
Think
we
all
these
are
for
himself
?
no
more
Than
his
fine
Wife
(
my
Lord
)
or
finer
Whore
.
For
what
has
Virro
painted
,
built
,
and
planted
?
Only
to
shew
how
many
Tastes
he
wanted
.
What
brought
Sir
Shylock's
ill-got
Wealth
to
waste
?
Some
Daemon
whisper'd
,
"
Knights
shou'd
have
a
Taste
.
"
Heav'n
visits
with
a
Taste
the
wealthy
Fool
,
And
needs
no
Rod
,
but
S—d
with
a
Rule
.
See
sportive
Fate
,
to
punish
aukward
Pride
,
Bids
Babo
build
,
and
sends
him
such
a
Guide
:
A
standing
Sermon
!
at
each
Year's
expence
,
That
never
Coxcomb
reach'd
Magnificence
.
Oft
have
have
you
hinted
to
your
Brother
Peer
,
A
certain
Truth
,
which
many
buy
too
dear
:
Something
there
is
,
more
needful
than
Expence
,
And
something
previous
ev'n
to
Taste
—
'Tis
Sense
;
Good
Sense
,
which
only
is
the
Gift
of
Heav'n
,
And
tho'
no
Science
,
fairly
worth
the
Seven
.
A
Light
,
which
in
yourself
you
must
perceive
;
Inigo
Jones
.
Jones
and
The
famous
Artist
who
design'd
the
best
Gardens
in
France
;
and
plann'd
Greenwich
and
St.
James's
Parks
,
&c.
Le
Nôtre
have
it
not
to
give
.
To
build
,
to
plant
,
whatever
you
intend
,
To
rear
the
Column
,
or
the
Arch
to
bend
,
To
swell
the
Terras
,
or
to
sink
the
Grot
;
In
all
,
let
Nature
never
be
forgot
.
Consult
the
Genius
of
the
Place
in
all
,
That
tells
the
Waters
or
to
rise
,
or
fall
,
Or
helps
th'
ambitious
Hill
the
Heav'ns
to
scale
,
Or
scoops
in
circling
Theatres
the
Vale
,
Calls
in
the
Country
,
catches
opening
Glades
,
Joins
willing
Woods
,
and
varies
Shades
from
Shades
,
Now
breaks
,
or
now
directs
,
th'
intending
Lines
;
Paints
as
you
plant
,
and
as
you
work
,
Designs
.
Begin
with
Sense
,
of
ev'ry
Art
the
Soul
,
Parts
answ'ring
Parts
,
shall
slide
into
a
Whole
,
Spontaneous
Beauties
all
around
advance
,
Start
,
ev'n
from
Difficulty
,
strike
,
from
Chance
;
Nature
shall
join
you
;
Time
shall
make
it
grow
A
Work
to
wonder
at
—
perhaps
a
The
Seat
and
Gardens
of
the
Lord
Viscount
Cobham
in
Buckinghamshire
.
STOW
.
Without
it
,
proud
Versailles
!
thy
Glory
falls
,
And
Nero's
Terrasses
desert
their
Walls
:
The
vast
Parterres
a
thousand
hands
shall
make
,
Lo
!
Bridgman
comes
,
and
floats
them
with
a
Lake
:
Or
cut
wide
Views
thro'
Mountains
to
the
Plain
,
You'll
wish
your
Hill
,
and
shelter'd
Seat
,
again
.
Behold
Villario's
ten-years
Toil
compleat
,
His
Quincunx
darkens
,
his
Espaliers
meet
,
The
Wood
supports
the
Plain
;
the
Parts
unite
,
And
strength
of
Shade
contends
with
strength
of
Light
;
His
bloomy
Beds
a
waving
Glow
display
,
Blushing
in
bright
Diversities
of
Day
,
With
silver-quiv'ring
Rills
maeander'd
o'er
—
—
Enjoy
them
,
you
!
Villario
can
no
more
,
Tir'd
of
the
Scene
Parterres
and
Fountains
yield
,
He
finds
at
last
he
better
likes
a
Field
.
Thro'
his
young
Woods
how
pleas'd
Sabinus
stray'd
,
Or
sate
delighted
in
the
thick'ning
Shade
,
With
annual
Joy
the
red'ning
Shoots
to
greet
,
And
see
the
stretching
Branches
long
to
meet
!
His
Son's
fine
Taste
an
op'ner
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
those
Allies
they
were
born
to
shade
.
Yet
hence
the
Poor
are
cloth'd
,
the
Hungry
fed
;
Health
to
himself
,
and
to
his
Infants
Bread
The
Lab'rer
bears
;
What
thy
hard
Heart
denies
,
Thy
charitable
Vanity
supplies
.
Another
Age
shall
see
the
golden
Ear
Imbrown
thy
Slope
,
and
nod
on
thy
Parterre
,
Deep
Harvests
bury
all
thy
Pride
has
plann'd
,
And
laughing
Ceres
re-assume
the
Land
.
At
Timon's
Villa
let
us
pass
a
Day
,
Where
all
cry
out
,
"
What
Sums
are
thrown
away
!
So
proud
,
so
grand
,
of
that
stupendous
Air
,
Soft
and
Agreeable
come
never
there
.
Greatness
,
with
Timon
,
dwells
in
such
a
Draught
As
brings
all
Brobdignag
before
your
Thought
:
To
compass
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
Insect
,
shiv'ring
at
a
Breeze
!
Lo
!
what
huge
Heaps
of
Littleness
around
!
The
Whole
,
a
labour'd
Quarry
above
ground
!
Two
Cupids
squirt
before
:
A
Lake
behind
Improves
the
keenness
of
the
Northern
Wind
.
His
Gardens
next
your
Admiration
call
,
On
ev'ry
side
you
look
,
behold
the
Wall
!
No
pleasing
Intricacies
intervene
,
No
artful
Wildeness
to
perplex
the
Scene
:
Grove
nods
at
Grove
,
each
Ally
has
a
Brother
,
And
half
the
Platform
just
reflects
the
other
.
The
suff'ring
Eye
inverted
Nature
sees
,
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
sails
thro'
Myrtle
bow'rs
;
Then
The
two
famous
Statues
of
the
Gladiator
pugnans
,
&
Gladiator
moriens
.
Gladiators
fight
,
or
die
,
in
flow'rs
;
Un-water'd
see
the
drooping
Sea-horse
mourn
,
And
Swallows
roost
in
Nilus'
dusty
Urn
.
Behold
!
my
Lord
advances
o'er
the
Green
,
Smit
with
the
mighty
pleasure
,
to
be
seen
:
But
soft
—
by
regular
approach
—
not
yet
—
First
thro'
the
length
of
yon
hot
Terras
sweat
,
And
when
up
ten
steep
Slopes
you've
dragg'd
your
thighs
,
Just
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
,
These
Aldus
printed
,
those
Du
Suëil
has
bound
.
Lo
some
are
Vellom
,
and
the
rest
as
good
For
all
his
Lordship
knows
,
but
they
are
Wood
.
For
Lock
or
Milton
'tis
in
vain
to
look
,
These
Shelves
admit
not
any
Modern
book
.
And
now
the
Chappel's
silver
bell
you
hear
,
That
summons
you
to
all
the
Pride
of
Pray'r
:
Light
Quirks
of
Musick
,
broken
and
uneven
,
Make
the
Soul
dance
upon
a
Jig
to
Heaven
.
On
painted
Cielings
you
devoutly
stare
,
Where
sprawl
the
Saints
of
Verrio
,
or
Laguerre
,
On
gilded
Clouds
in
fair
expansion
lie
,
And
bring
all
Paradise
before
your
Eye
.
To
Rest
,
the
Cushion
,
and
soft
Dean
invite
,
Who
never
mentions
Hell
to
Ears
polite
.
But
hark
!
the
chiming
Clocks
to
Dinner
call
;
A
hundred
Footsteps
scrape
the
marble
Hall
:
The
rich
Buffet
well-colour'd
Serpents
grace
,
And
gaping
Tritons
spew
to
wash
your
Face
.
Is
this
a
Dinner
?
this
a
Genial
Room
?
No
,
'tis
a
Temple
,
and
a
Hecatomb
;
A
solemn
Sacrifice
,
perform'd
in
State
,
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
:
Between
each
Act
the
trembling
Salvers
ring
,
From
Soup
to
Sweetwine
,
and
God
bless
the
King
.
In
Plenty
starving
,
tantaliz'd
in
State
,
And
complaisantly
help'd
to
all
I
hate
,
Treated
,
caress'd
,
and
tir'd
,
I
take
my
leave
,
Sick
of
his
civil
Pride
,
from
Morn
to
Eve
;
I
curse
such
lavish
Cost
,
and
little
Skill
,
And
swear
,
no
Day
was
ever
past
so
ill
.
In
you
,
my
Lord
,
Taste
sanctifies
Expence
,
For
Splendor
borrows
all
her
Rays
from
Sense
.
You
show
us
,
Rome
was
glorious
,
not
profuse
,
And
pompous
Buildings
once
were
things
of
use
.
Just
as
they
are
,
yet
shall
your
noble
Rules
Fill
half
the
Land
with
Imitating
Fools
,
Who
random
Drawings
from
your
Sheets
shall
take
,
And
of
one
Beauty
many
Blunders
make
;
Load
some
vain
Church
with
old
Theatric
State
;
Turn
Arcs
of
Triumph
to
a
Garden-gate
;
Reverse
your
Ornaments
,
and
hang
them
all
On
some
patch'd
Doghole
ek'd
with
Ends
of
Wall
,
Then
clap
four
slices
of
Pilaster
on't
,
And
lac'd
with
bits
of
Rustic
,
'tis
a
Front
:
Shall
call
the
Winds
thro'
long
Arcades
to
roar
,
Proud
to
catch
cold
at
a
Venetian
door
;
Conscious
they
act
a
true
Palladian
part
,
And
if
they
starve
,
they
starve
by
Rules
of
Art
.
Yet
thou
proceed
;
be
fallen
Arts
thy
care
,
Erect
new
Wonders
,
and
the
Old
repair
,
Jones
and
Palladio
to
themselves
restore
,
And
be
whate'er
Vitruvius
was
before
:
Till
Kings
call
forth
th'
Idea's
of
thy
Mind
,
Proud
to
accomplish
what
such
hands
design'd
,
Bid
Harbors
open
,
publick
Ways
extend
,
And
Temples
,
worthier
of
the
God
,
ascend
;
Bid
the
broad
Arch
the
dang'rous
Flood
contain
,
The
Mole
projected
break
the
roaring
Main
;
Back
to
his
bounds
their
subject
Sea
command
,
And
roll
obedient
Rivers
thro'
the
Land
:
These
Honours
,
Peace
to
happy
Britain
brings
,
These
are
Imperial
Works
,
and
worthy
Kings
.
FINIS
.