But whence these turns of inclination rose,
The genius this, the god of nature knows:
That mystic power, which our actions guides,
Attends our stars, and o'er our lives presides:
This we may trace, propitious, or malign,
Stamp'd on each face, and vary'd thro' each line.
I from a fortune moderate shall grant
Myself enough to satisfy my want,

Nor fear the censure of my thankless heir,
That I have left too little to his share;
And yet the wide distinction would I scan
Between an open, hospitable man,
And prodigal; the frugalist secure,
And miser, pinch'd with penury; for sure
It differs whether you profusely spend
Your wealth, or never entertain a friend;
Or, wanting prudence, like a play-day boy
Blindly rush on, to catch the flying joy.
Avert, ye gods, avert the loathsome load
Of want inglorious, and a vile abode.
To me are equal, so they bear their charge,
The little pinnace and the lofty barge.
Nor am I wafted by the swelling gales
Of winds propitious, with expanded sails,
Nor yet expos'd to tempest-bearing strife,
Adrift to struggle thro' the waves of life,
Last of the first, first of the last in weight,
Parts, vigor, person, virtue, birth, estate.

You are not covetous: be satisfy'd.
But are you tainted with no vice beside?
From vain ambition, dread of death's decree,
And fell resentment, is thy bosom free?

Say, can you laugh indignant at the schemes Of magic terrors, visionary dreams, Portentous wonders, witching imps of hell, The nightly goblin, and enchanting spell? Dost thou recount with gratitude and mirth The day revolv'd, that gave thy being birth? Indulge the failings of thy friends, and grow More mild and virtuous, as thy seasons flow?

Pluck out one thorn to mitigate thy pain, What boots it while so many more remain? Or act with just propriety your part, Or yield to those of elegance and art. Already glutted with a farce of age, "Tis time for thee to quit the wanton stage, Lest youth, more decent in their follies, scoff The nauseous scene, and hiss thee reeling off.

END OF EPISTLES,

ART OF POETRY.