'Tis the first virtue, vices to abhor: And the first wisdom, to be fool no more. But to the world no bugbear is so great, As want of figure, and a small estate. To either India see the merchant fly, Scared at the spectre of pale poverty! 70 See him, with pains of body, pangs of soul, Burn through the tropic, freeze beneath the pole! Wilt thou do nothing for a nobler end, Nothing, to make philosophy thy friend? To stop thy foolish views, thy long desires, And ease thy heart of all that it admires? Here, Wisdom calls: 'Seek Virtue first, be bold! As gold to silver, Virtue is to gold.' There, London's voice: 'Get money, money still! And then let virtue follow, if she will.' 80 This, this the saving doctrine, preach'd to all, From low St James's up to high St Paul; From him whose quill stands quiver'd at his ear, To him who notches sticks[132] at Westminster. Barnard[133] in spirit, sense, and truth abounds; 'Pray then, what wants he?' Fourscore thousand pounds; A pension, or such harness for a slave As Bug now has, and Dorimant would have. Barnard, thou art a cit, with all thy worth; But Bug and D----l, their Honours, and so forth. 90 Yet every child another song will sing, 'Virtue, brave boys! 'tis virtue makes a king.' True, conscious honour is to feel no sin, He's arm'd without that's innocent within; Be this thy screen, and this thy wall of brass; Compared to this, a minister's an ass. And say, to which shall our applause belong, This new court-jargon, or the good old song? The modern language of corrupted peers, Or what was spoke at Cressy and Poictiers? 100 Who counsels best? who whispers, 'Be but great, With praise or infamy leave that to fate; Get place and wealth, if possible, with grace; If not, by any means get wealth and place.' For what? to have a box where eunuchs sing, And foremost in the circle eye a king. Or he, who bids thee face with steady view Proud fortune, and look shallow greatness through: And, while he bids thee, sets th' example too? If such a doctrine, in St James's air, 110 Should chance to make the well-dress'd rabble stare; If honest S----z take scandal at a spark, That less admires the palace than the park: Faith, I shall give the answer Reynard gave: 'I cannot like, dread sir, your royal cave: Because I see, by all the tracks about, Full many a beast goes in, but none comes out.' Adieu to virtue, if you're once a slave: Send her to court, you send her to her grave.