226 SAMUEL JOHNSON

To thee were solemn toys, or empty show, The robes of pleasure and the veils of wo : All aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain, Whose joys are causeless, and whose griefs are

vain. Such was the scorn that fill'd the sage's

mind,

Renew'd at every glance on human kind ; How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare, Search every state, and canvass every prayer. Unnumber'd suppliants crowd Preferment's

gate,

Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great; Delusive Fortune hears th' incessant call ; They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall. On every stage the foes of peace attend, Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their

end. Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's

door

Pours in the morning worshipper no more ; For growing names the weekly scribbler lies, To growing wealth the dedicator flies, From every room descends the painted face, That hung the bright palladium of the place ; And, smoked in kitchens, or in auctions sold, To better features yields the frame of gold ; For now no more we trace in every line Heroic worth, benevolence divine ;

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