Eight Types Of Wives Essay

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Eight Types Of Wives Essay

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In every state, and every age of life, v. Know, then, thyself, presume not God to scan; The proper study of mankind is man. Go, wondrous creature! Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule— Then drop into thyself, and be a fool! Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind, Describe or fix one movement of his mind? Who saw its fires here rise, and there descend, Explain his own beginning, or his end? Alas, what wonder! Two principles in human nature reign; Self-love to urge, and reason, to restrain; Nor this a good, nor that a bad we call, Each works its end, to move or govern all And to their proper operation still, Ascribe all good; to their improper, ill. Man, but for that, no action could attend, And but for this, were active to no end: Fixed like a plant on his peculiar spot, To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot; Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the void, Destroying others, by himself destroyed.

Most strength the moving principle requires; Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires. Sedate and quiet the comparing lies, Formed but to check, deliberate, and advise. Thicker than arguments, temptations throng. At best more watchful this, but that more strong. The action of the stronger to suspend, Reason still use, to reason still attend. Attention, habit and experience gains; Each strengthens reason, and self-love restrains. Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight, More studious to divide than to unite; And grace and virtue, sense and reason split, With all the rash dexterity of wit.

Wits, just like fools, at war about a name, Have full as oft no meaning, or the same. Self-love and reason to one end aspire, Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire; But greedy that, its object would devour, This taste the honey, and not wound the flower: Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, Our greatest evil, or our greatest good. Pleasures are ever in our hands or eyes; And when in act they cease, in prospect rise: Present to grasp, and future still to find, The whole employ of body and of mind. We, wretched subjects, though to lawful sway, In this weak queen some favourite still obey: Ah! Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend, A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend! Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade The choice we make, or justify it made; Proud of an easy conquest all along, She but removes weak passions for the strong; So, when small humours gather to a gout, The doctor fancies he has driven them out.

What crops of wit and honesty appear From spleen, from obstinacy, hate, or fear! Thus Nature gives us let it check our pride The virtue nearest to our vice allied: Reason the bias turns to good from ill And Nero reigns a Titus, if he will. The fiery soul abhorred in Catiline, In Decius charms, in Curtius is divine: The same ambition can destroy or save, And makes a patriot as it makes a knave. This light and darkness in our chaos joined, What shall divide? The God within the mind. If white and black blend, soften, and unite A thousand ways, is there no black or white? Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace.

No creature owns it in the first degree, But thinks his neighbour farther gone than he; Even those who dwell beneath its very zone, Or never feel the rage, or never own; What happier nations shrink at with affright, The hard inhabitant contends is right. Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally The common interest, or endear the tie. To these we owe true friendship, love sincere, Each home-felt joy that life inherits here; Yet from the same we learn, in its decline, Those joys, those loves, those interests to resign; Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, To welcome death, and calmly pass away. The learned is happy nature to explore, The fool is happy that he knows no more; The rich is happy in the plenty given, The poor contents him with the care of Heaven.

See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, The sot a hero, lunatic a king; The starving chemist in his golden views Supremely blest, the poet in his muse. See some strange comfort every state attend, And pride bestowed on all, a common friend; See some fit passion every age supply, Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die. The whole Universe one system of Society, v. Nothing made wholly for itself, nor yet wholly for another, v.

The happiness of Animals mutual, v. Reason or Instinct operate alike to the good of each Individual, v. Reason or Instinct operate also to Society, in all Animals, v. How far Society carried by Instinct, v. How much farther by Reason, v. Of that which is called the State of Nature, v. Reason instructed by Instinct in the invention of Arts, v. Origin of Political Societies, v.

Origin of Monarchy, v. Patriarchal Government, v. Origin of true Religion and Government, from the same principle, of Love, v. Origin of Superstition and Tyranny, from the same principle, of Fear, v. The Influence of Self-love operating to the social and public Good, v. Restoration of true Religion and Government on their first principle, v. Mixed Government, v. Various forms of each, and the true end of all, v. Look round our world; behold the chain of love Combining all below and all above. See plastic Nature working to this end, The single atoms each to other tend, Attract, attracted to, the next in place Formed and impelled its neighbour to embrace.

See matter next, with various life endued, Press to one centre still, the general good. See dying vegetables life sustain, See life dissolving vegetate again: All forms that perish other forms supply By turns we catch the vital breath, and die , Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, They rise, they break, and to that sea return. Nothing is foreign: parts relate to whole; One all-extending, all-preserving soul Connects each being, greatest with the least; Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast; All served, all serving: nothing stands alone; The chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown.

Has God, thou fool! Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, For him as kindly spread the flowery lawn: Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. The bounding steed you pompously bestride, Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain? The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. Thine the full harvest of the golden year? Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer: The hog, that ploughs not nor obeys thy call, Lives on the labours of this lord of all.

Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove? Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings? Man cares for all: to birds he gives his woods, To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods; For some his interest prompts him to provide, For more his pleasure, yet for more his pride: All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy The extensive blessing of his luxury. That very life his learned hunger craves, He saves from famine, from the savage saves; Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast, And, till he ends the being, makes it blest; Which sees no more the stroke, or feels the pain, Than favoured man by touch ethereal slain. To each unthinking being, Heaven, a friend, Gives not the useless knowledge of its end: To man imparts it; but with such a view As, while he dreads it, makes him hope it too; The hour concealed, and so remote the fear, Death still draws nearer, never seeming near.

Great standing miracle! Whether with reason, or with instinct blest, Know, all enjoy that power which suits them best; To bliss alike by that direction tend, And find the means proportioned to their end. Say, where full instinct is the unerring guide, What pope or council can they need beside? Who taught the nations of the field and wood To shun their poison, and to choose their food? Prescient, the tides or tempests to withstand, Build on the wave, or arch beneath the sand?

Who made the spider parallels design, Sure as Demoivre, without rule or line? Who did the stork, Columbus-like, explore Heavens not his own, and worlds unknown before? Who calls the council, states the certain day, Who forms the phalanx, and who points the way? God in the nature of each being founds Its proper bliss, and sets its proper bounds: But as He framed a whole, the whole to bless, On mutual wants built mutual happiness: So from the first, eternal order ran, And creature linked to creature, man to man.

Not man alone, but all that roam the wood, Or wing the sky, or roll along the flood, Each loves itself, but not itself alone, Each sex desires alike, till two are one. Nor ends the pleasure with the fierce embrace; They love themselves, a third time, in their race. Thus beast and bird their common charge attend, The mothers nurse it, and the sires defend; The young dismissed to wander earth or air, There stops the instinct, and there ends the care; The link dissolves, each seeks a fresh embrace, Another love succeeds, another race.

That graft benevolence on charities. Still as one brood, and as another rose, These natural love maintained, habitual those. The last, scarce ripened into perfect man, Saw helpless him from whom their life began: Memory and forecast just returns engage, That pointed back to youth, this on to age; While pleasure, gratitude, and hope combined, Still spread the interest, and preserved the kind. Pride then was not; nor arts, that pride to aid; Man walked with beast, joint tenant of the shade; The same his table, and the same his bed; No murder clothed him, and no murder fed. Of half that live the butcher and the tomb; Who, foe to nature, hears the general groan, Murders their species, and betrays his own.

But just disease to luxury succeeds, And every death its own avenger breeds; The fury-passions from that blood began, And turned on man a fiercer savage, man. See him from Nature rising slow to art! Mark what unvaried laws preserve each state, Laws wise as nature, and as fixed as fate. In vain thy reason finer webs shall draw, Entangle justice in her net of law, And right, too rigid, harden into wrong; Still for the strong too weak, the weak too strong. Yet go! Great Nature spoke; observant men obeyed; Cities were built, societies were made: Here rose one little state: another near Grew by like means, and joined, through love or fear. Did here the trees with ruddier burdens bend, And there the streams in purer rills descend?

What war could ravish, commerce could bestow, And he returned a friend, who came a foe. Converse and love mankind might strongly draw, When love was liberty, and Nature law. Till then, by Nature crowned, each patriarch sate, King, priest, and parent of his growing state; On him, their second providence, they hung, Their law his eye, their oracle his tongue. Till drooping, sickening, dying they began Whom they revered as God to mourn as man: Then, looking up, from sire to sire, explored One great first Father, and that first adored. Or plain tradition that this all begun, Conveyed unbroken faith from sire to son; The worker from the work distinct was known, And simple reason never sought but one: Ere wit oblique had broke that steady light, Man, like his Maker, saw that all was right; To virtue, in the paths of pleasure, trod, And owned a Father when he owned a God.

Love all the faith, and all the allegiance then; For Nature knew no right divine in men, No ill could fear in God; and understood A sovereign being but a sovereign good. True faith, true policy, united ran, This was but love of God, and this of man. For, what one likes if others like as well, What serves one will when many wills rebel? How shall he keep, what, sleeping or awake, A weaker may surprise, a stronger take?

His safety must his liberty restrain: All join to guard what each desires to gain. Forced into virtue thus by self-defence, Even kings learned justice and benevolence: Self-love forsook the path it first pursued, And found the private in the public good. Man, like the generous vine, supported lives; The strength he gains is from the embrace he gives. On their own axis as the planets run, Yet make at once their circle round the sun; So two consistent motions act the soul; And one regards itself, and one the whole. Thus God and Nature linked the general frame, And bade self-love and social be the same. False Notions of Happiness, Philosophical and Popular, answered from v. It is the End of all Men, and attainable by all, v. God intends Happiness to be equal; and to be so, it must be social, since all particular Happiness depends on general, and since He governs by general, not particular Laws, v.

As it is necessary for Order, and the peace and welfare of Society, that external goods should be unequal, Happiness is not made to consist in these, v. But, notwithstanding that inequality, the balance of Happiness among Mankind is kept even by Providence, by the two Passions of Hope and Fear, v. What the Happiness of Individuals is, as far as is consistent with the constitution of this world; and that the good Man has here the advantage, V. The error of imputing to Virtue what are only the calamities of Nature or of Fortune, v. The folly of expecting that God should alter His general Laws in favour of particulars, v. That we are not judges who are good; but that, whoever they are, they must be happiest, v.

That external goods are not the proper rewards, but often inconsistent with, or destructive of Virtue, v. That even these can make no Man happy without Virtue: Instanced in Riches, v. Honours, v. Nobility, v. Greatness, v. Fame, v. Superior Talents, v. With pictures of human Infelicity in Men possessed of them all, v. That Virtue only constitutes a Happiness, whose object is universal, and whose prospect eternal, v. That the perfection of Virtue and Happiness consists in a conformity to the Order of Providence here, and a Resignation to it here and hereafter, v.

Good, pleasure, ease, content! Plant of celestial seed! Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reaped in iron harvests of the field? Where grows? Ask of the learned the way? The learned are blind; This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind; Some place the bliss in action, some in ease, Those call it pleasure, and contentment these; Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain; Some, swelled to gods, confess even virtue vain; Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, To trust in everything, or doubt of all. Who thus define it, say they more or less Than this, that happiness is happiness? Condition, circumstance is not the thing; Bliss is the same in subject or in king, In who obtain defence, or who defend, In him who is, or him who finds a friend: Heaven breathes through every member of the whole One common blessing, as one common soul.

If then to all men happiness was meant, God in externals could not place content. But health consists with temperance alone; And peace, oh, virtue! The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain; But these less taste them, as they worse obtain. Say, in pursuit of profit or delight, Who risk the most, that take wrong means, or right; Of vice or virtue, whether blessed or cursed, Which meets contempt, or which compassion first?

Who sees and follows that great scheme the best, Best knows the blessing, and will most be blest. But fools the good alone unhappy call, For ills or accidents that chance to all. See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just! See god-like Turenne prostrate on the dust! See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife! Was this their virtue, or contempt of life? Tell me, if virtue made the son expire, Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire? Or why so long in life if long can be Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me? What makes all physical or moral ill? There deviates Nature, and here wanders will.

God sends not ill; if rightly understood, Or partial ill is universal good, Or change admits, or Nature lets it fall; Short, and but rare, till man improved it all. We just as wisely might of Heaven complain That righteous Abel was destroyed by Cain, As that the virtuous son is ill at ease When his lewd father gave the dire disease. Shall burning Etna, if a sage requires, Forget to thunder, and recall her fires?

On air or sea new motions be imprest, Oh, blameless Bethel! When the loose mountain trembles from on high, Shall gravitation cease, if you go by? But still this world so fitted for the knave Contents us not. A better shall we have? A kingdom of the just then let it be: But first consider how those just agree. This cries there is, and that, there is no God. What shocks one part will edify the rest, Nor with one system can they all be blest. The very best will variously incline, And what rewards your virtue, punish mine.

Whatever is, is right. Is the reward of virtue bread? The good man may be weak, be indolent; Nor is his claim to plenty, but content. Why is not man a god, and earth a heaven? Who ask and reason thus, will scarce conceive God gives enough, while He has more to give: Immense the power, immense were the demand; Say, at what part of nature will they stand? Weak, foolish man! The boy and man an individual makes, Yet sighest thou now for apples and for cakes? Go, like the Indian, in another life Expect thy dog, thy bottle, and thy wife: As well as dream such trifles are assigned, As toys and empires, for a God-like mind. Rewards, that either would to virtue bring No joy, or be destructive of the thing: How oft by these at sixty are undone The virtues of a saint at twenty-one!

To whom can riches give repute or trust, Content, or pleasure, but the good and just? Judges and senates have been bought for gold, Esteem and love were never to be sold. Oh, fool! Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part, there all the honour lies. What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards? Look next on greatness; say where greatness lies? No less alike the politic and wise; All sly slow things, with circumspective eyes; Men in their loose unguarded hours they take, Not that themselves are wise, but others weak. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed.

In parts superior what advantage lies? Tell for you can what is it to be wise? Painful pre-eminence! To sigh for ribands if thou art so silly, Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy: Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life? If all, united, thy ambition call, From ancient story learn to scorn them all. There, in the rich, the honoured, famed, and great, See the false scale of happiness complete! In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay, How happy! Oh, wealth ill-fated! Some greedy minion, or imperious wife. The trophied arches, storeyed halls invade And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade. See the sole bliss Heaven could on all bestow! For Him alone, hope leads from goal to goal, And opens still, and opens on his soul! Till lengthened on to faith, and unconfined, It pours the bliss that fills up all the mind He sees, why Nature plants in man alone Hope of known bliss, and faith in bliss unknown: Nature, whose dictates to no other kind Are given in vain, but what they seek they find Wise is her present; she connects in this His greatest virtue with his greatest bliss; At once his own bright prospect to be blest, And strongest motive to assist the rest.

Is this too little for the boundless heart? God loves from whole to parts: but human soul Must rise from individual to the whole. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake, As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake! Come, then, my friend! 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?

Father of all! Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill; And binding Nature fast in fate, Left free the human will. What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This, teach me more than Hell to shun, That, more than Heaven pursue. What blessings Thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away; For God is paid when man receives, To enjoy is to obey.

Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume Thy bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land, On each I judge Thy foe. If I am right, Thy grace impart, Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, oh, teach my heart To find that better way. Save me alike from foolish pride, Or impious discontent, At aught Thy wisdom has denied, Or aught Thy goodness lent. That it is not sufficient for this knowledge to consider Man in the Abstract: Books will not serve the purpose, nor yet our own Experience singly, v.

General maxims, unless they be formed upon both, will be but notional, v. Some Peculiarity in every man, characteristic to himself, yet varying from himself, v. Difficulties arising from our own Passions, Fancies, Faculties, etc. The shortness of Life, to observe in, and the uncertainty of the Principles of action in men, to observe by, v. Our own Principle of action often hid from ourselves, v. Some few Characters plain, but in general confounded, dissembled, or inconsistent, v. The same man utterly different in different places and seasons, v. Unimaginable weaknesses in the greatest, v. Nothing constant and certain but God and Nature, v.

No judging of the Motives from the actions; the same actions proceeding from contrary Motives, and the same Motives influencing contrary actions v. Characters given according to the rank of men of the world, v. And some reason for it, v. Education alters the Nature, or at least Character of many, v. No judging by Nature, from v. It only remains to find if we can his Ruling Passion: That will certainly influence all the rest, and can reconcile the seeming or real inconsistency of all his actions, v.

Instanced in the extraordinary character of Clodio, v. A caution against mistaking second qualities for first, which will destroy all possibility of the knowledge of mankind, v. Examples of the strength of the Ruling Passion, and its continuation to the last breath, v. Yes, you despise the man to books confined, Who from his study rails at human kind; Though what he learns he speaks, and may advance Some general maxims, or be right by chance. And yet the fate of all extremes is such, Men may be read as well as books, too much. Grant but as many sorts of mind as moss. Our depths who fathoms, or our shallows finds, Quick whirls, and shifting eddies, of our minds? Like following life through creatures you dissect, You lose it in the moment you detect. Yet more; the difference is as great between The optics seeing, as the object seen.

All manners take a tincture from our own; Or come discoloured through our passions shown. As the last image of that troubled heap, When sense subsides, and fancy sports in sleep Though past the recollection of the thought , Becomes the stuff of which our dream is wrought: Something as dim to our internal view, Is thus, perhaps, the cause of most we do. When flattery glares, all hate it in a queen, While one there is who charms us with his spleen. But these plain characters we rarely find; Though strong the bent, yet quick the turns of mind: Or puzzling contraries confound the whole; Or affectations quite reverse the soul. See the same man, in vigour, in the gout; Alone, in company; in place, or out; Early at business, and at hazard late; Mad at a fox-chase, wise at a debate; Drunk at a borough, civil at a ball; Friendly at Hackney, faithless at Whitehall.

Catius is ever moral, ever grave, Thinks who endures a knave is next a knave, Save just at dinner—then prefers, no doubt, A rogue with venison to a saint without. He thanks you not, his pride is in piquet, Newmarket-fame, and judgment at a bet. What made say Montagne, or more sage Charron Otho a warrior, Cromwell a buffoon? A perjured prince a leaden saint revere, A godless regent tremble at a star? The throne a bigot keep, a genius quit, Faithless through piety, and duped through wit? Europe a woman, child, or dotard rule, And just her wisest monarch made a fool? Know, God and Nature only are the same: In man, the judgment shoots at flying game, A bird of passage! In vain the sage, with retrospective eye, Would from the apparent what conclude the why, Infer the motive from the deed, and show, That what we chanced was what we meant to do.

Not always actions show the man: we find Who does a kindness, is not therefore kind; Perhaps prosperity becalmed his breast, Perhaps the wind just shifted from the east: Not therefore humble he who seeks retreat, Pride guides his steps, and bids him shun the great: Who combats bravely is not therefore brave, He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave: Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise, His pride in reasoning, not in acting lies.

But grant that actions best discover man; Take the most strong, and sort them as you can. The few that glare each character must mark; You balance not the many in the dark. What will you do with such as disagree? Suppress them, or miscall them policy? Must then at once the character to save The plain rough hero turn a crafty knave? But, sage historians! Though the same sun with all-diffusive rays Blush in the rose, and in the diamond blaze, We prize the stronger effort of his power, And justly set the gem above the flower.

Boastful and rough, your first son is a squire; The next a tradesman, meek, and much a liar; Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave; Will sneaks a scrivener, an exceeding knave: Is he a Churchman? That gay Freethinker, a fine talker once, What turns him now a stupid silent dunce? Some god, or spirit he has lately found: Or chanced to meet a minister that frowned. Judge we by Nature? Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, Tenets with books, and principles with times.

Search then the ruling passion: there, alone, The wild are constant, and the cunning known; The fool consistent, and the false sincere; Priests, princes, women, no dissemblers here. This clue once found, unravels all the rest, The prospect clears, and Wharton stands confest. Shall parts so various aim at nothing new! Thus with each gift of nature and of art, And wanting nothing but an honest heart; Grown all to all, from no one vice exempt; And most contemptible, to shun contempt: His passion still, to covet general praise, His life, to forfeit it a thousand ways; A constant bounty which no friend has made; An angel tongue, which no man can persuade; A fool, with more of wit than half mankind, Too rash for thought, for action too refined: A tyrant to the wife his heart approves; A rebel to the very king he loves; He dies, sad outcast of each church and state, And, harder still!

Ask you why Wharton broke through every rule? Nature well known, no prodigies remain, Comets are regular, and Wharton plain. Yet, in this search, the wisest may mistake, If second qualities for first they take. Lucullus, when frugality could charm, Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm. In this one passion man can strength enjoy, As fits give vigour, just when they destroy. Time, that on all things lays his lenient hand, Yet tames not this; it sticks to our last sand. Consistent in our follies and our sins, Here honest Nature ends as she begins. Behold a reverend sire, whom want of grace Has made the father of a nameless race, Shoved from the wall perhaps, or rudely pressed By his own son, that passes by unblessed: Still to his haunt he crawls on knocking knees, And envies every sparrow that he sees.

Is there no hope! And you! How many pictures of one nymph we view, All how unlike each other, all how true! Here Fannia, leering on her own good man, And there, a naked Leda with a swan. Come then, the colours and the ground prepare! Dip in the rainbow, trick her off in air; Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute. How soft is Silia! Sudden, she storms! You tip the wink, But spare your censure; Silia does not drink. All eyes may see from what the change arose, All eyes may see—a pimple on her nose.

Why pique all mortals, yet affect a name? A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame: Now deep in Taylor and the Book of Martyrs, Now drinking citron with his grace and Chartres: Now Conscience chills her, and now Passion burns; And Atheism and Religion take their turns; A very heathen in the carnal part, Yet still a sad, good Christian at her heart. What then? What has not fired her bosom or her brain? Say, what can cause such impotence of mind? A spark too fickle, or a spouse too kind. Wise wretch! Or her, whose life the Church and scandal share, For ever in a passion, or a prayer. Woman and fool are two hard things to hit; For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit. Scarce once herself, by turns all womankind!

No thought advances, but her eddy brain Whisks it about, and down it goes again. Full sixty years the world has been her trade, The wisest fool much time has ever made From loveless youth to unrespected age, No passion gratified except her rage. So much the fury still outran the wit, The pleasure missed her, and the scandal hit. Her every turn with violence pursued, Nor more a storm her hate than gratitude: To that each passion turns, or soon or late; Love, if it makes her yield, must make her hate: Superiors? But an inferior not dependent? Atossa, cursed with every granted prayer, Childless with all her children, wants an heir. To heirs unknown descends the unguarded store, Or wanders, Heaven-directed, to the poor. Chameleons who can paint in white and black? She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought; But never, never, reached one generous thought.

Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, Content to dwell in decencies for ever. So very reasonable, so unmoved, As never yet to love, or to be loved. She, while her lover pants upon her breast, Can mark the figures on an Indian chest; And when she sees her friend in deep despair, Observes how much a chintz exceeds mohair. Of all her dears she never slandered one, But cares not if a thousand are undone. She bids her footman put it in her head. Chloe is prudent—would you too be wise? Then never break your heart when Chloe dies. One certain portrait may I grant be seen, Which Heaven has varnished out, and made a Queen.

The same for ever! Poets heap virtues, painters gems at will, And show their zeal, and hide their want of skill. That robe of quality so struts and swells, None see what parts of nature it conceals: The exactest traits of body or of mind, We owe to models of an humble kind. In men, we various ruling passions find; In women, two almost divide the kind: Those, only fixed they first or last obey— The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.

That, Nature gives; and where the lesson taught Is but to please, can pleasure seem a fault? Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman is at heart a rake: Men, some to quiet, some to public strife; But every lady would be queen for life. Yet mark the fate of a whole sex of queens! Power all their end, but beauty all the means: In youth they conquer, with so wild a rage, As leaves them scarce a subject in their age: For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam; No thought of peace or happiness at home.

Beauties, like tyrants, old and friendless grown, Yet hate repose, and dread to be alone, Worn out in public, weary every eye, Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die. See how the world its veterans rewards! A youth of frolics, an old age of cards; Fair to no purpose, artful to no end; Young without lovers, old without a friend; A fop their passion, but their prize a sot; Alive, ridiculous; and dead, forgot! That it is known to few, most falling into one of the extremes, Avarice or Profusion, v.

The point discussed, whether the invention of money has been more commodious or pernicious to Mankind, v. That Riches, either to the Avaricious or the Prodigal, cannot afford Happiness, scarcely Necessaries, v. That Avarice is an absolute Frenzy, without an end or purpose, v. Conjectures about the motives of Avaricious men, v. That the conduct of men, with respect to Riches, can only be accounted for by the Order of Providence, which works the general good out of extremes, and brings all to its great End by perpetual Revolutions, v.

How a Miser acts upon Principles which appear to him reasonable, v. How a Prodigal does the same, v. The due Medium and true use of Riches, v. The Man of Ross, v. The fate of the Profuse and the Covetous, in two examples; both miserable in Life and in Death, v. The Story of Sir Balaam, v. Who shall decide, when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me? You hold the word, from Jove to Momus given, That man was made the standing jest of Heaven; And gold but sent to keep the fools in play, For some to heap, and some to throw away. Like doctors thus, when much dispute has past, We find our tenets just the same at last. Trade it may help, society extend. But lures the pirate, and corrupts the friend. In vain may heroes fight, and patriots rave; If secret gold sap on from knave to knave.

That lends corruption lighter wings to fly! Could France or Rome divert our brave designs, With all their brandies or with all their wines? What could they more than knights and squires confound, Or water all the Quorum ten miles round? Astride his cheese Sir Morgan might we meet; And Worldly crying coals from street to street, Whom with a wig so wild, and mien so mazed, Pity mistakes for some poor tradesman crazed.

Or soft Adonis, so perfumed and fine, Drive to St. Since then, my lord, on such a world we fall, What say you? Why, take it, gold and all. What Riches give us let us then inquire: Meat, fire, and clothes. What more? Meat, clothes, and fire. Is this too little? What can they give? Perhaps you think the poor might have their part? Yet, to be just to these poor men of pelf, Each does but hate his neighbour as himself: Damned to the mines, an equal fate betides The slave that digs it, and the slave that hides.

Who suffer thus, mere charity should own, Must act on motives powerful, though unknown. Some war, some plague, or famine they foresee, Some revelation hid from you and me. Why Shylock wants a meal, the cause is found— He thinks a loaf will rise to fifty pound. What made directors cheat in South-Sea year? To live on venison when it sold so dear. Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys? Phryne foresees a general excise. Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum? The crown of Poland, venal twice an age, To just three millions stinted modest Gage. Congenial souls! Much injured Blunt! Riches, like insects, when concealed they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. Old Cotta shamed his fortune and his birth, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth: What though the use of barbarous spits forgot His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot?

His court with nettles, moats with cresses stored, With soups unbought and salads blessed his board? If Cotta lived on pulse, it was no more Than Brahmins, saints, and sages did before; To cram the rich was prodigal expense, And who would take the poor from Providence? Not so his son; he marked this oversight, And then mistook reverse of wrong for right. For what to shun will no great knowledge need; But what to follow is a task indeed. Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise, More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise. What slaughtered hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the capacious squire, and deep divine! And shall not Britain now reward his toils, Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils? In vain at Court the bankrupt pleads his cause, His thankless country leaves him to her laws.

That secret rare, between the extremes to move Of mad good-nature, and of mean self-love. Wealth in the gross is death, but life diffused; As poison heals, in just proportion used: In heaps, like ambergrise, a stink it lies, But well dispersed, is incense to the skies. Who starves by nobles, or with nobles eats? The wretch that trusts them, and the rogue that cheats. Is there a lord who knows a cheerful noon Without a fiddler, flatterer, or buffoon? There, English bounty yet awhile may stand, And Honour linger ere it leaves the land. But all our praises why should lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.

Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows? Whose seats the weary traveller repose? Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise? The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread; He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smiling at the gate; Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blest, The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick? Is there a variance? Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, And vile attorneys, now a useless race. Thrice happy man! Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply?

What mines, to swell that boundless charity? Of debts, and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possest—five hundred pounds a year. Blush, grandeur, blush! Ye little stars, hide your diminished rays! And what? His race, his form, his name almost unknown? Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, Will never mark the marble with his name; Go, search it there, where to be born and die, Of rich and poor makes all the history; Enough, that virtue filled the space between; Proved, by the ends of being, to have been.

Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend! And see what comfort it affords our end. No wit to flatter left of all his store! No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. That I can do, when all I have is gone. Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confessed, Arise, and tell me, was thy death more blessed? Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall, For very want; he could not build a wall. What even denied a cordial at his end, Banished the doctor, and expelled the friend?

What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Yet numbers feel the want of what he had! Or are they both in this their own reward? A knotty point! The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, And longed to tempt him like good Job of old: But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Roused by the prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away: He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit.

There so the devil ordained one Christmas tide My good old lady catched a cold and died. Stephen gains. My lady falls to play; so bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues; The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs; Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! The Vanity of Expense in people of Wealth and Quality. The abuse of the word Taste, v. That the first Principle and foundation, in this as in everything else, is Good Sense, v. The chief Proof of it is to follow Nature even in works of mere Luxury and Elegance.

Instanced in Architecture and Gardening, where all must be adapted to the Genius and Use of the Place, and the Beauties not forced into it, but resulting from it, v. How men are disappointed in their most expensive undertakings, for want of this true Foundation, without which nothing can please long, if at all: and the best Examples and Rules will but be perverted into something burdensome or ridiculous, v. A description of the false Taste of Magnificence; the first grand Error of which is to imagine that Greatness consists in the size and dimension, instead of the Proportion and Harmony of the whole, v.

Yet Providence is justified in giving Wealth to be squandered in this manner, since it is dispersed to the poor and laborious part of mankind, v. What are the proper objects of Magnificence, and a proper field for the Expense of Great Men, v. Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats; Artists must choose his pictures, music, meats: He buys for Topham, drawings and designs, For Pembroke, statues, dirty gods, and coins; Rare monkish manuscripts for Hearne alone, And books for Mead, and butterflies for Sloane.

Think we all these are for himself? For what has Virro painted, built, and planted? Only to show, how many tastes he wanted. You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of use. Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven: A light, which in yourself you must perceive: Jones and Le Notre have it not to give. To build, to plant, whatever you intend, To rear the column, or the arch to bend, To swell the terrace, or to sink the grot; In all, let Nature never be forgot.

But treat the goddess like a modest fair, Nor over-dress, nor leave her wholly bare; Let not each beauty everywhere be spied, Where half the skill is decently to hide. He gains all points, who pleasingly confounds, Surprises, varies, and conceals the bounds. Consult the genius of the place in all; That tells the waters or to rise or fall, Or helps the ambitious hill the heavens 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, the intending lines; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs.

Still follow sense, of every art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start even from difficulty, strike from chance; Nature shall join you; Time shall make it grow A work to wonder at—perhaps a Stowe. Even in an ornament its place remark, Nor in a hermitage set Dr. Villario can no more; Tired of the scene parterres and fountains yield, He finds at last he better likes a field. Through his young woods how pleased Sabinus strayed, Or sat delighted in the thickening shade, With annual joy the reddening shoots to greet, Or see the stretching branches long to meet!

Greatness, with Timon, dwells in such a draught As brings all Brobdingnag 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, shivering at a breeze! Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around! The whole, a laboured quarry above ground; Two Cupids squirt before; a lake behind Improves the keenness of the northern wind. His gardens next your admiration call, On every side you look, behold the wall! No pleasing intricacies intervene, No artful wildness to perplex the scene; Grove nods at grove, each alley has a brother, And half the platform just reflects the other.

His study! In books, not authors, curious is my lord; To all their dated backs he turns you round: These Aldus printed, those Du Sueil has bound, Lo, some are vellum, and the rest as good For all his lordship knows, but they are wood. On painted ceilings 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! Is this a dinner? A solemn sacrifice, performed in state, You drink by measure, and to minutes eat. Between each act the trembling salvers ring, From soup to sweet-wine, and God bless the King. In plenty starving, tantalised in state, And complaisantly helped to all I hate, Treated, caressed, and tired, 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.

Yet hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed; Health to himself, and to his infants bread The labourer bears; what his hard heart denies His charitable vanity supplies. Another age shall see the golden ear Embrown the slope, and nod on the parterre, Deep harvests bury all his pride has planned, And laughing Ceres re-assume the land. Who then shall grace, or who improve the soil? Who plants like Bathurst, or who builds like Boyle.

You too proceed! See the wild waste of all-devouring years! How Rome her own sad sepulchre appears, With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanished like their dead! Imperial wonders raised on nations spoiled, Where mixed with slaves the groaning martyr toiled: Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drained a distant country of her floods: Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage. Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal conspire, And Papal piety, and Gothic fire. Ambition sighed: she found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling bust: Huge moles, whose shadow stretched from shore to shore, Their ruins perished, and their place no more; Convinced, she now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin.

A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps; Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps; Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is rolled, And little eagles wave their wings in gold. The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye Gods, emperors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpened sight pale antiquaries pore, The inscription value, but the rust adore. This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years! To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. Nor blush, these studies thy regard engage; These pleased the fathers of poetic rage; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art.

Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enrolled, And vanquished realms supply recording gold? This Paper is a sort of bill of complaint, begun many years since, and drawn up by snatches, as the several occasions offered. Being divided between the necessity to say something of myself, and my own laziness to undertake so awkward a task, I thought it the shortest way to put the last hand to this Epistle. If it have anything pleasing, it will be that by which I am most desirous to please, the truth and the sentiment; and if anything offensive, it will be only to those I am least sorry to offend, the vicious or the ungenerous.

Many will know their own pictures in it, there being not a circumstance but what is true; but I have, for the most part, spared their names, and they may escape being laughed at if they please. I would have some of them know, it was owing to the request of the learned and candid friend to whom it is inscribed, that I make not as free use of theirs as they have done of mine. However, I shall have this advantage and honour on my side, that whereas, by their proceeding, any abuse may be directed at any man, no injury can possibly be done by mine, since a nameless character can never be found out but by its truth and likeness. Shut, shut the door, good John! The dog-star rages! What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?

They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the Church is free; Even Sunday shines no Sabbath Day to me; Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time. Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls? All fly to Twitenham, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damned works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! A dire dilemma! Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I! To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. Dare you refuse him? And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face? Good friend, forbear! Out with it, Dunciad! The Queen of Midas slept, and so may I. You think this cruel? Let peals of laughter, Codrus! Who shames a scribbler? Whom have I hurt? His butchers Henley, his free-masons Moore? Does not one table Bavius still admit? Slaves were livestock, and their duties included propagating the labor pool. Pleasure remained the prerogative of white owners and overseers, who put their penises where they pleased among the bodies they owned.

Sex, for them, was power expressed through rape. So from the time of slavery to the civil rights era, with intermarriage illegal, black men faced every possible violence, including castration and far worse, as both punishment and prevention against even presumed sexual insult. An exchange as common as eye contact, as simple as salutation, could be construed as an assault. Black men were bludgeoned and lynched for so little as speaking to white women. In , while visiting Mississippi from Chicago, Emmett Till was kidnapped, tortured and shot for supposedly whistling at a white woman. As a boy, I was told that story the way you warn a child about traffic lights, seatbelts and talking to strangers. Claude Neal was 23 — a farmhand in Jackson County, Fla.

But eventually they tracked him down in Alabama, holding the jailer at gunpoint and absconding with Neal. The news of his capture attracted a bloodthirsty crowd of as many as 3, Onlookers stabbed at it, spit on it, ran their cars over it. His body was then driven back to town and strung up in an oak so that the full mob could have its way. People skinned him. His fingers were cut off and, eventually, jarred. He was set on fire. Then we cut off his pecker and made him eat it and say it was good. The warning in these stories is obvious: Be careful near white people.

The real show turned out to be as self-incriminating as the fictional one. In September, Lena Dunham made an irritating paradox of those assumptions when she took public umbrage after the football player Odell Beckham Jr. It was a 21st-century offense that seems as if it could have been taken in the 19th. By the end of the s, some black people were wondering that about Sidney Poitier: How much longer would a year-old man have to stay a movie virgin? How many more times could he be made a mannequin of palatable innocuousness?

Friedman includes part of a letter that a Pennsylvania lieutenant named William Feltman wrote in after a dinner on a Virginia plantation, during which he was served by teenage boys whose penises were visible beneath their clothes. Reading about yourself in this way — reduced — is disorienting. I know the fantasy exists. It renders black men desired on one hand and feared on the other. The ingenuity of the Blaxploitation era, with all its flamboyant, do-it-yourself carnality, was its belief in black women and men and its conflation of danger and desire. But back then, that was simply the way things were: baad.

Black men were swinging their dicks for black audiences. The films wanted not just to master the myth but also to throw it headfirst out the window. This one gathers a group of barely acquainted people — all positioned on negligibly opposite sides of morality, history and the law — and traps them, Agatha Christie-style, in a shack during a blizzard. A lot of them get to spinning yarns, but only one of those stories earns a flashback: the one told by Maj. Marquis Warren Samuel L. Jackson , a cavalryman turned bounty hunter. Warren says he happened upon the younger Smithers and, recognizing him, staged an act of racial retribution, which the flashback shows us.

Then the score goes horror-film crazy and cuts back to Jackson, who gives the narration all the Zeusian jive that you pay Jackson to summon. In the world of this film, Tarantino is playing with the truth. His movie runs along the third rail of race in America: that black dingus. Who knows if Warren made this story up. Courtesy of Tarantino, he knows that nothing turns a white man red faster than a black penis.

Opening up the threat to sons laughs at the ludicrousness of it all. That dingus is coming for everybody. Tarantino revises the social parameters of the Hollywood western so that racism and misogyny are its villains. Most of that revision, though, still hangs from a black penis. Why continue to frame black power as a genital threat? Hence those cartoon hero-slaves, Selico, Itanoko and Zami. It can be a peculiar thing being black in this country. Even the people who claim to love you are capable of these little accidents of hate — the social equivalent of finding hair in your food.

One night, when I was 24 and living in San Francisco, I met a handsome white guy visiting from Germany. Eventually I brought him to my apartment, where, after removing some of his clothes, he eagerly started to undo my pants. I knew what he meant. That hurt, but I remember being amused that, for him, all our attraction came down to was what someone had told him my dick should look like. But everybody knows. That presumption is something you tend to prepare for with interracial sex — that your dick could either render the rest of you disposable or put your humanity on a pedestal, out of reach.

That it could make you a Mapplethorpe. In the photos, black men sit and stand and contort themselves for portraits, from entirely nude to fully clothed. There are photos of backs. Some of the photos are meant to be erotic, and all are meant to seem worthy of being looked at. In many, though, he obviously did. A gentleman stands in a matching blazer, vest and trousers, filling the frame from midchest to just above the knee. The image has the basic cheesiness of a department-store catalog photo — a headless person, not quite facing the camera, arms at his side, his brown hands open. His zipper is open, too, and out of it hangs his penis. My favorite detail is the bit of white shirt coming through the zipper. It makes the penis look as if it were getting out of bed.

An everyday object — the male power suit — gets a scandalous comic assist. Are these guys doing social politics or fetishization? The difference between fetishization and romance is that only romance really cares what its object wants. Mapplethorpe and Tarantino both have complicated relationships with that difference. Mapplethorpe found most bodies beautiful and otherworldly, but especially black ones.

He lit dark skin so it looked like wet paint and arranged subjects until they became furniture or evoked slave auctions. It strikes a peculiarly foundational American note: This was another white man looking at black men, with effrontery but also with want. You can locate a sense of ownership, of possession, in many of the images. Any eroticism in the photos might have come from the possibility that, sexually, he himself was possessed. There is no paradigmatic white penis. To each man his own. But there is a paradigmatic black one, and how do you stunt-cast for that? When people are turning down sex with a perfectly good black penis to look for a perfectly better one, how do you determine what an authentic-seeming black penis even is? What does the Kevin Hart of black dicks look like?

What about the Denzel? And how would a white casting director know?

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