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  1. Individual Author Record
  4. Bite the Hand That Feeds You: Essays and Provocations (A New Republic Book)
  5. Brief Encounters - Columbia Journalism Review

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!

Individual Author Record

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.

Bite the Hand That Feeds You: Essays and Provocations (A New Republic Book)

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?

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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!

Brief Encounters - Columbia Journalism Review

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.

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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.