Those to control, and these to succour trade; 460 To curb the insolence of rude command, To snatch the victim from the usurer's hand; To awe the bold, to yield the wrong'd redress, And feed the poor with Luxury's excess." Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong, His nature leads ungovern'd man along; Like mighty bulwarks made to stem that tide, The laws are form'd and placed on ev'ry side: Whene'er it breaks the bounds by these decreed, New statutes rise, and stronger laws succeed; 470 More and more gentle grows the dying stream, More and more strong the rising bulwarks seem; Till, like a miner working sure and slow, Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below; The basis sinks, the ample piles decay; The stately fabric shakes and falls away; Primeval want and ignorance come on, But freedom, that exalts the savage state, is gone. Next, HISTORY ranks;--there full in front she lies, And every nation her dread tale supplies. 480 Yet History has her doubts, and every age With sceptic queries marks the passing page; Records of old nor later date are clear-- Too distant those, and these are placed too near; There time conceals the objects from our view, Here our own passions and a writer's too. Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose, Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes; Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain, Lo! how they sunk to slavery again! 490 Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possess'd, A nation grows too glorious to be bless'd; Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all, And foes join foes to triumph in her fall. Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race, The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace; The headlong course, that madd'ning heroes run, How soon triumphant, and how soon undone; How slaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to sale, And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale. 500 Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood, Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood: There, such the taste of our degenerate age, Stand the profane delusions of the STAGE. Yet virtue owns the TRAGIC MUSE a friend-- Fable her means, morality her end; For this she rules all passions in their turns, And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns; Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl; Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul; 510 She makes the vile to virtue yield applause, And own her sceptre while they break her laws; For vice in others is abhorr'd of all, And villains triumph when the worthless fall. Not thus her sister COMEDY prevails, Who shoots at folly, for her arrow fails: Folly, by dulness arm'd, eludes the wound, And harmless sees the feather'd shafts rebound; Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill, Laughs at her malice, and is folly still.