lies. 
  Fortune in men has some small difference made,
  One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade;
  The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned,
  The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned. 
  ‘What differ more (you cry) than crown and cowl?’
  I’ll tell you, friend! a wise man and a fool. 
  You’ll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,
  Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk,
  Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow,
  The rest is all but leather or prunella.

* * * * *

  God loves from whole to parts; but human soul
  Must rise from individual to whole. 
  Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake,
  As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake;
  The centre moved, a circle straight succeeds,
  Another still, and still another spreads;
  Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace;
  His country next; and next all human race;
  Wide and more wide, th’ o’erflowings of the mind
  Take every creature in, of every kind;
  Earth smiles around, with boundless bounty blessed,
  And Heaven beholds its image in his breast. 
  Come then, my friend! my Genius! come along;
  Oh master of the poet, and the song! 
  And while the Muse now stoops, or now ascends,
  To man’s low passions, or their glorious ends,
  Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise,
  To fall with dignity, with temper rise;
  Formed by thy converse, happily to steer
  From grave to gay, from lively to severe;
  Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,
  Intent to reason, or polite to please. 
  Oh! while along the stream of time thy name
  Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame,
  Say, shall my little bark attendant sail,
  Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale? 
  When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose,
  Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes,
  Shall then this verse to future age pretend
  Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend? 
  That urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art
  From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart;
  For wit’s false mirror held up Nature’s light;
  Shewed erring pride, Whatever is, is right;
  That reason, passion, answer one great aim;
  That true self-love and social are the same;
  That virtue only, makes our bliss below;
  And all our knowledge is, ourselves to know.

  FROM MORAL ESSAYS

  OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN

  Nothing so true as what you once let fall,
  ‘Most women have no characters at all.’ 
  Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
  And best distinguished by black, brown, or fair. 
  How many pictures of one nymph we view,
  All how unlike each other, all how true! 
  Arcadia’s countess, here in ermined pride,
  Is there Pastora by a fountain side;
  Here Fannia, leering on her own good man,