T’ is strange, the Miser should his Cares employ, To gain those Riches he can ne’er enjoy: Is it less strange, the Prodigal should wast His wealth, to purchase what he ne’er can taste? Not for himself he sees, or hears, or eats; ~ Artists must choose his Pictures, Music, Meats: [. . .] You show us, Rome was glorious, not profuse, And pompous buildings once were things of Use. Yet shall (my Lord) your just, your noble rules Fill half the land with Imitating Fools; Who random drawings from your sheets shall take, And of one beauty many blunders make; Load some vain Church with old Theatric state, Turn Arcs of triumph to a Garden-gate; Reverse your Ornaments, and hang them all On some patch’d dog-hole ek’d with ends of wall, Then clap four slices of Pilaster on’t, That, lac’d with bits of rustic, makes a Front; Or call the winds thro’ long Arcades to roar, Proud to catch cold at a Venetian door; Conscious they act a true Palladian part, And, if they starve, they starve by rules of art. Oft have you hinted to your brother Peer, A certain truth, which many buy too dear: Something there is more needful than Expence, And something previous ev’n to Taste – ’tis Sense: Good Sense, which only is the gift of Heav’n, And tho’ 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 Terras, 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 ev’ry where bespy’d, 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 to rise, or fall, Or helps th’ ambitious Hill the heav’ns 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, th’ intending Lines; Paints as you plant, and, as you work, designs. Still follow Sense, of ev’ry Art the Soul, Parts answ’ring parts shall slide into a whole, Spontaneous beauties all around advance, Start ev’n from Difficulty, strike from Chance; Nature shall join you, Time shall make it grow A Work to wonder at – perhaps a STOWE. Without it, proud Versailles! thy glory falls; And Nero’s Terraces desert their walls: [. . .] At Timon’s [editor’s note: the name of a noted misanthrope of Athens] Villa let us pass a day, Where all cry out, ‘What sums are thrown away!’ So proud, so grand, of that stupendous air, Soft and Agreeable come never there. 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, shiv’ring at a breeze! Lo, what huge heaps of littleness around! The whole, a labour’d Quarry above ground. Two Cupids squirt before: a Lake behind Improves the keenness of the Northern wind. His Gardens next your admiration call, On ev’ry 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. The suff ’ring eye inverted Nature sees,

Trees cut to Statues, Statues thick as trees, With here a Fountain, never to be play’d, And there a Summer-house, that knows no shade; Here Amphitrite sails thro’ myrtle bowers; There Gladiators fight, or die, in flow’rs; Un-water’d see the drooping sea-horse mourn, And swallows roost in Nilus’ dusty Urn. [. . .] ’Tis Use alone that sanctifies Expence, And Splendour borrows all her rays from Sense. His Father’s Acres who enjoys in peace, Or makes his Neighbours glad, if he increase; Whose chearful Tenants bless their yearly toil, Yet to their Lord owe more than to the soil; Whose ample Lawns are not asham’d to feed The milky heifer and deserving steed; Whose rising Forests, not for pride or show, But future Buildings, future Navies grow: Let his plantations stretch from down to down, First shade a Country, and then raise a Town. You too proceed! make falling Arts your care, Erect new wonders, and the old repair, Jones and Palladio to themselves restore, And be whate’er Vitruvius was before: Till Kings call forth th’ Idea’s of your mind, Proud to accomplish what such hands design’d, Bid Harbours open, public Ways extend, Bid Temples, worthier of the God, ascend; Bid the broad Arch the dang’rous Flood contain, The Mole projected break the roaring Main; Back to his bounds their subject Sea command, And roll obedient Rivers thro’ the Land; These Honours, Peace to happy Britain brings, These are Imperial Works, and worthy Kings.