CHARACTERS OF VIRTUE and VICE.  
Described in the Persons of The Wiseman, The Valiant Man, The truly Noble, The Patient Man, The true Friend, The Hypocrite, The Superstitious, The Profane, The Busy-Body, The Envious.  
Attempted in Verse FROM A TREATISE OF THE Reverend JOSEPH HALL., Late Lord Bishop of Exeter.  
By N. TATE.  
LONDON, Printed for Francis Saunders, at the Blue-Anchor, in the Lower Walk of the New-Exchange, 1691.   

PREFACE.  
THE Representing of Virtue and Vice in their respective Beauties and Deformities, is the genuine Task of Poetry: the true and proper Themes of Panegyric and satire. The giving Precepts of Morality was originally the Employment of the Muses, and established their first Reputation. Few Poets have excelled who merited not the Character ascribed by Horace to Homer: 
Qui quid sit pulchrum, quid turpe, quid utile, quid non,  
Pleniùs ac meliùs Chrysippo & Crantore dicit.   
It was for useful Prescriptions of Polity and Private Life, that Orpheus and Amphion were celebrated, and the Faculty itself reputed Sacred: 
Sic Honour & Nomen divinis Vatibus atque  
Carminibus venit.   
If the Virgil's and Horace's of our Age could have been prevailed with to have Adorned the following Subjects, it had saved my imperfect Performance. But I could not refuse the Temptation, when it was proposed to me to proceed upon the Hints and Groundwork of a Treatise Written by the Ingenious and Learned Dr Hall, Bishop of Exeter; by which means my Reader would be secure of good Sense in the Version. If I have added no Grains, I hope that, at least, I have lost nothing of the Oar in Melting it down.  
The Character of some Vices will naturally run into Humour, requiring Instances and Expressions that are Familiar, and Sermoni propiora. In a word, I am sufficiently sensible of my Imperfections in this Essay, but Comfort myself with the Hopes that abler Performers may be incited, in mere Compassion, to Rescue such worthy Subjects from so ill Hands.   

THE MAN of WISDOM.  
THE Man that's Wise to Know All Things aspires,  
But First the Knowledge of Himself desires:  
How far the Compass of his Strength can go;  
But his own Weakness studies most to know.  
He Reason's more by Practice than by Rule;  
His Logicks learned in Observation's School.  
Taught by Experience truly to reflect,  
Can First Himself and then his Friends direct.  
He ne'er suspends but in a doubtful Case;  
Ne'er doubts where Resolution should take place.  
Of every needful Thing just Care does take,  
But most concerned for his immortal stake.  
Without that scope counts fruitless each endeavour,  
Nor would be Happy Once, if not for ever.  
Himself best Knowing best Himself can Trust,  
Others so far as He has proved them Just.  
The World may Him deceive but ne'er Abuse,  
Who Trusts no more than He can bear to lose.  
While close Retirement is to Him a Screen,  
Himself looks through and sees the World, Unseen:  
Yet shows, when forced the Daylight to abide,  
Prudence, not Affectation, made him hide.  
Does never, Causeless, from his purpose Range,  
When Reason calls, He never fears to Change.  
While th' ablest Master He's allowed to be,  
No Scholar more disposed to learn than Herald  
From every Thing Instruction He can draw,  
And from Him each Instruction is a Law.  
To Ages past his nimble Thoughts can Climb,  
In Things to come prevent the speed of Time.  
Unborn Events by past Events forestall,  
And in Conjecture be Prophetical.  
His Passions He ne'er suffers to Rebel,  
Or hastens their first Mutiny to Quell.  
By Honour's Light in all his Projects sails,  
And Board's a second when a former fails.  
Makes Disappointment but improve his skill,  
And fetches Strength from what succeeded ill.  
Some Wrongs He sees not but with silent Art,  
Dissembles Wounds too powerful Foes impart.  
Loves to owe less in good turns than He may,  
For Bad would be in Debt and never pay.  
Censures, Unjust or Just, alike to Him;  
Those He Deserves not, These he can Contemn.  
Slights Scandal, lays no violent Hands on Blame,  
Gives Slander scope till it expire with Shame.  
His Joy no Fears, his Hope knows no Despairs,  
Safe in the Circle of his own Affairs.  
From others strife he timely does Retire,  
Nor thrusts his Hand into a needless Fire.  
He best the Purchase of his Wit can tell,  
And how to Value, Keep and Use it well.  
Himself his own best Lawyer, and his skill,  
His readiest and most faithful Oracle.  
Consulted, He's in no Man's Business Blind,  
But in his Own of more than Eagle-kind.   

THE VALIANT MAN.  
BOld without Rashness, without Fury, Warm:  
He long Consults, but does with speed perform.  
He seeks not Dangers: when on Him they press,  
He bears 'em down with Courage and Success.  
Armed Death Enthroned on Slaughter He can spy,  
March on, and with a scornful smile pass by.  
Forecasts the worst Events, and in his Thought,  
Before one stroke Exchanged, the Battle's fought.  
If unexpected Ills his Heart surprise,  
One Minute to disperse 'em will suffice:  
With instant Sally he prevents the Blow,  
And turns Amazement back upon the Foe.  
Ne'er seen to fly, but from some foul Offence,  
And fears no Strength below Omnipotence.  
Peace he would choose, and when the Sword he draws,  
He looks not on his Hand but on his Cause.  
Nor weighs what Succours wait to take his Part,  
How strong his Arm, but Innocent his Heart.  
Overpowered may fall, with numbers Vanquished be,  
And leave the Foe to Blush at Victory.  
Called out by Honour to some bold Attacque,  
His Heart's Blood may be seen, but ne'er his Back.  
On base Conditions he disdains to Live,  
And what he asks, would to the Vanquished give.  
Ne'er known the Blood of Innocents' to shed,  
On Carcases, or suppliant Foes to tread;  
He'll rather stifle Wrongs he might Resent,  
Than take Revenge upon the Impotent.  
Nor can determine which he'd rather be,  
Of Cowardice impeached, or Cruelty.  
His sparing Words no room for Boast affords,  
His readiest Language is, his Hand and Sword.  
By Action heard, whose never-ceasing Force,  
Keeps every Talker furnished with Discourse.  
Not idly Prodigal of Life or Blood,  
But sparing neither for his country's good.  
While Fate does noble Means of Life supply,  
He Lives; but those refused, can bravely Die.  
His Power (to which his Reason still gives Laws,)  
It's Right Confessed, the Exercise withdraws.  
Thinks he does then the greatest Triumph gain,  
When He can Hurt, yet from Revenge abstain.  
Without Servility He can Obey,  
And in Command no Tyranny Display.  
He Courts not Fortune's Smiles, nor fears her Hate,  
Nor can she change his Mind with his Estate.  
That his high Spirit still o'erlooks Mischance,  
Springs not from Senselesness nor Ignorance;  
But th' utmost Power of Fate computing first,  
He knows her strength, and bids her do her worst.  
In Purpose Cool, in Resolution Fired,  
In Erterprises, Daring and Untired;  
Glorious, though not successful in Design,  
And when o'ercome, His Heart does last Resign.   

THE TRULY NOBLE.  
ADvantages of Ancestry and Birth,  
He counts but Fortune's Gift, and borrowed Worth:  
What he achieves he only calls Renown,  
And Honour purchased by Himself, his Own.  
If short his Glory's Estimate be found  
Of what his noble Ancestors had Crowned,  
The bright Inheritance but proves his Shame;  
Not Raised, but Burdened by Descended Fame.  
No Greatness makes him Scorn or Pride express,  
Still Higher raised he still would seem the less.  
Life from his Soul as soon divorced may be,  
As from his Manners Native Courtesy:  
Which for no servile or ambitious end  
Of popular Applause he does extend,  
But from the genuine Sweetness of his Frame,  
And noble Justice to Himself and Fame.  
His Hand is open, yet his Glory still  
Is governed by his Fortune not his Will.  
And wisely bounteous can distinguish right,  
Betwixt a Friend and fawning Parasite.  
Most Men their Favours sell, exchange, or lend,  
He only does his Kindnesses expend.  
He would no Licence from his Greatness gain,  
And without Goodness counts his Titles vain.  
From Power no Priv'lege claims to be Unjust,  
Nor makes Prerogative a Bawd to Lust;  
Conscience and Honour both his Actions bind,  
By Eminence to stricter Laws confined.  
Each Virtue has its Ornament and Use  
In his just Notion, and no Vice Excuse.  
He no Man Guilty makes to make him Great,  
And even his Creatures with Respect can treat.  
Oblige, yet not on Liberty intrude,  
Or turn Dependence into Servitude.  
He seeks no forged Pretence, without Reward  
An old and worn-out Servant to Discard:  
Their Duty, Faith, and Diligence to bind  
The Sweetness of his Service makes 'em find.  
For Him, no Vassals can their Toil repent,  
Their Industry's not Lost, but only Lent.  
The Difference 'twixt his Wealth and Honour, is,  
That, in Receiving stands, in Giving, This.  
He'll be obliged to Few; but does not care  
How large the Number that his Favours share.  
Asks who wants most, not who can best Repay;  
And ne'er Repines at Favours cast away.  
Can Constancy in all Estates express,  
Himself alike to Peace and War address.  
Then, most his Country's Servant he is found,  
When she to his Command has set no bound.  
More pleased true Worship to his God to give,  
Than civil Honours from Mankind receive.  
For Fame, relies not on the World's Applause,  
But what from Heaven it's Approbation draws.  
Of true Nobility conceives this Sense,  
The Blood its Body only to dispense;  
The Soul derives from virtue's Eminence.  
Descended Honours He reputes to cease,  
Unless his nobler Deeds the Tale increase,  
That Glory does admit no Careless Heir,  
And not t' improve the Stock is to Impair.   

THE PATIENT MAN.  
THE Patient Man has so much strength attained,  
And o'er Himself so large a Conquest gained,  
That safe from Foreign Wrongs he does remain;  
They came too late to Conquer him again.  
Boldly to Suffer, is his Valour's Test,  
He's most Victorious when He's most oppressed.  
While under Mountain-Loads himself he rears,  
Of more than humane Courage he appears,  
And is, if rightly we his Sufferings scan,  
'Bove Nature raised while He seems less than Man.  
His Love and Charity are ever bend  
To construe all things with a fair Intent.  
To small and doubtful Injuries He's blind,  
Gross Wrongs he'll think not done, or not designed;  
Not meant, or not to Him; if Both appear,  
From Malice still his Injuries He'll clear;  
He'll say Misinformation caused th' offence,  
And when it cannot bear so mild a sense,  
Call't Rash, and with the hasty Fault dispense.  
Patient he is, but yet not tame or base:  
He wants not Courage but abounds in Grace.  
To take Revenge for Harms, as Man He dares;  
Resents as Man, but as a Christian spares.  
He's God's best Witness, and before the Bar  
For Truth's fair sake, undaunted can appear;  
Hear unconcerned the false Accuser's Voice,  
Receive, and in his Unjust doom Rejoice.  
A Prison is his Palace, and to Him  
Pages of Honour all his Jailers seem,  
The Dungeon his Retiring Room he counts,  
And to the Rack as to a Throne He mounts;  
His Torturers worst Cruelty disdains,  
Suffers his Own, and baffles all their Pains.  
Just Pity the Beholders does inspire,  
Unpitying and remorseless Foes, Admire.  
His Hopes to no Discouragements can yield,  
They still advance, or keep at least the Field.  
Where once the Path of Kindness He has trod,  
No Obstacles can make him quit the Road.  
If no Impression his first Favours make,  
He still redoubles till he wins the stake.  
Can after Shipwreck try the Sea, and beat  
At the deaf door he ne'er saw opened yet.  
Different Events alike to Him befall,  
He sees the Hand of Providence in All.  
When that Protects, he pays his grateful Vows,  
And when it strikes, to just Correction Bows.  
Can Virtue from Necessity produce,  
And with strange, Art put Evil to good Use.  
In Conquest does beyond the Warrior go,  
The surest Friend, the latest easiest Foe:  
Than others so much Happier does appear,  
As He can more and worse Misfortunes bear.   

THE TRUE FRIEND.  
UNited, yet divided is his Breast;  
Half by Himself, All by his Friend possessed.  
His Choice by Sympathy of Souls is bred,  
By Worth and Virtue, not by Interest led.  
He pays Affection 'cause the Debt is just,  
And Loves because he ought, because he must.  
Contracts with Caution, and considers long,  
But once Agreed, no Bargain is more strong.  
He chooses so as He may ne'er complain,  
Like one that never meant to choose again.  
And e'er his Love can vary one Degree,  
His Friend Quite altered from Himself must be:  
Let just occasion his submission move,  
A Servant to his Equal He can prove.  
To serve Him condescends with greater joy,  
Than his Inferiour's Service to employ.  
Advanced to Power his Friendship still is found  
In its old Garb, familiar, plain, and sound.  
For his Friend's sake with Honours he complies,  
Yields to be Great to help his Friend to Rise.  
His Friend expired, His Self's but half alive,  
His Friendship only does his Friend survive.  
Death to his Love no Dissolution brings,  
It but divides the Stream to sundry Springs.  
For now the tender Orphans, left too young  
To know their Father's Worth, to Him belong;  
Adopted His, the Burden of his Cares,  
His Heart's near Kin, and his Affections Heirs.  
He's so much stricter, and more nicely just,  
For having lost the Witness of his Trust.  
Where Honesty or Nature can comply,  
He grants a frank and full Community.  
To Friendship's Entrance leaves an open Field  
Without Reserves, but what were Sin to yield.  
No longer can enjoy that thing whose use  
He thinks would more to his Friend's Good conduce.  
His Charity does still a Cloak provide  
Of Secrecy, his Friend's Defects to hide.  
Much by Concealment from the Public View,  
By close Reproof more proves his Friendship true.  
And when the watchful Kindness of his Friend  
Finds just occasion him to reprehend,  
He thanks his frank Chastiser on that score,  
More loves him as he makes him smart the more.  
To Him as to the Closet of his Cares,  
With Doubts, Complaints, his welcome Friend repairs;  
Unburdens there the secrets of his Mind,  
Leaves all locked up, and as he leaves may find.  
Let grief at once his Friend and him surround,  
His sense still quickest for his Friend is found;  
Bleeds in his own, but smarts in his Friend's Wound.  
No Hour's unseasonable, no Pains displease,  
No Cost can grievous seem to give him Ease.  
No Envious Looker's on can balk his Zeal,  
But what He does He rather would conceal,  
Best pleased when a good Office he can steal.  
Favours Received, in Memory's Book he sets,  
What He bestows as zealously forgets.  
He 's Sorrow's Comfort, Difficulty's Guide,  
The Joy of Life, Earth's Treasure, and its Pride;  
An Angel Clothed in Flesh, and near to God Allied.  
The End of the Characters on Virtue.   

THE HYPOCRITE.  
THE Hypocrite to sadness can convert  
His looks, while Mirth is Rev'lling in his Heart,  
Then Jugler-like with Pleasure does retreat,  
To think how smoothly he has passed the Cheat.  
How with false stamps of Virtue on his Face,  
The Miscreant passes for a Babe of Grace.  
With early Patience waits at the Church Door,  
And e'er half entered he salutes the Floor,  
But still observing with a transversed Eye,  
What Passenger does his Devotion spy.  
If Cognizance to take He none perceives,  
Ftets inward, and at his lost labour grieves.  
Looks round with Admiration on the Crowd;  
Of frozen Charity complains aloud.  
Takes care to have his Pew placed best in sight,  
In haste plucks forth his Tables as to write  
Some Sermon-Note, mean while does only scrawl,  
Forgotten Errands there, or nought at all:  
Then with a Noise whisks his Bossed Bible over,  
Where He for some Quotation seems to poor;  
And glancing from one Chapter to a next,  
Folds down the Leaf as He had found the Text.  
Inquires the Preacher's Name, stays last i' th' Church,  
To con him Thanks, and waits him to the Porch.  
When of his Youth he speaks, his Tears flow fast;  
Not for his Youth's Sins, but because 'tis Past.  
His lesser Vices frankly are confessed,  
All but the reigning Belial of his Breast.  
Gives public Alms, and those but when he must,  
Nor without Witness God Himself will trust.  
With Usuries, Superfluity he gilds  
Extortion, and an Hospital he builds.  
And thinks th' Injustice largely is repaid,  
To keep ten Beggars for ten thousand made.  
From Flesh on Friday with a greater Dread  
He does Abstain than from his Neighbour's Bed.  
To swear by God's Name rather will allow,  
Than at the Name of Jesus not to Bow.  
To Him when Fustian Poet reads his stuff,  
He begs a Copy, cries 'tis Censure-Proof.  
Finds nothing that's amiss while th' Author stays,  
And nothing, when the Fop's withdrawn, to Praise.  
By his Stepmother's Sickbed he can Weep,  
Wish her sound Rest, that is, Eternal Sleep.  
I' th' Street he greets his Friend with cheerful Eyes,  
And hugging Close, when will you come? He cries.  
But Curses Him in is Heart if he complies.  
Small Fare affords, yet even that small does grudge,  
Close-frowning on his Wife, that 'tis so much.  
For what He seems and says, He well might pass,  
Himself's the very worst Thing that He has.  
His Neighbour's Nuissance, and the Stranger's Saint;  
Or in a Word, his Character to Paint,  
Angel Abroad, at Home a Spirit evil,  
And when an Angel worse than when a Devil.   

THE SUPERSTITIOUS.  
WHat Monster, Superstition, is like Thee,  
Thou Godless Zeal, devout Impiety.  
The Superstitious Wight is Folly's Heir,  
Fond in observance, servile in his Fear.  
He worships God but as He lists; in what  
Is not Required, He'll supererogate.  
Give more, give All, except what God demands,  
And makes more Duties than the Ten Commands.  
Till Crossed and sprinkled dares not stir abroad,  
Comes back if but a Hare run thwart his Road.  
If he but trips at Door, or on his Way,  
But recollects it was no lucky Day  
Of setting out, (though All's Estate depend)  
Turns back in sight of his long Journey's End.  
If Salt fall towards Him he looks pale and red,  
Stairs as the House were tumbling on his Head.  
Nor can recover Breath till that mishap  
Be purged by shedding Wine into his Lap.  
If he but sneeze, his Eyes around he sends,  
Thinks them who done't Uncover, not his Friends.  
To judge the Wether walks betimes abroad,  
And Hearks if Even the Crow cry, or Odd.  
If but a Raven Croak in Dead of Night,  
He makes his Will as he had heard a spirit.  
Or if a Dream shall in his Brains Ferment,  
A Garden, or departed Friend present;  
His Senses are into Confusion hurled,  
Bespeaks his Coffin, and takes leave o' th' World.  
On such Days only He'll set out by Water,  
Nor for the World without his Erra Pater.  
St. Paul's Day for his Oracle does take,  
And Swythin's is his surest Almanac.  
No Sin afflicts him on his Dying Bed,  
But having once of Flesh on Friday fed.  
He thinks the Rest can no Repentance need,  
And no Repentance can for That succeed.  
His Dreams, for sure Predictions must avail,  
And if th' Event his Exposition fail;  
His Wits are then on new solutions bend,  
And He Expounds according to th' Event.  
Old Wives and Stars are all his Councillors,  
For Recipes against Sickness, Charms he wears;  
For Toothache Paracelsian Characters.  
Impossibilities the credulous Elf  
Calls Miracles, and strains to cheat Himself.  
Let him but hear that in a distant soil,  
Some sacred Block does speak, move, weep, or smile;  
He Barefoot hies his Offering there to pay,  
And if a Danger miss him in the way;  
If he but scape the muting of a Crow,  
The Timber-Saint a Miracle did show.  
Some Roads He Baulks, for Goblins there he feigns,  
Each Lanthorn's Will o' th' Wisp, and every Noise of Chains.  
His Custom (for what Cause he ne'er could know)  
Is, with some little Compass still to go;  
Here to pass Nimbly, There to make a stand,  
And ever leave the Cross on his Right Hand.  
His Method has no Reason; yet no Force  
Threats nor Entreaties make him change his Course.  
If he have thumed his Beads, and prayed his Tale,  
He's safe enough; it matters not for Zeal.  
And lastly, with Respect to Heaven, might He  
The Carver of his Own Obedience be,  
God never could a better Servant have,  
But, as He is, has no perverser Slave.   

THE PROFANE.  
IN mad extremes the superstitious own  
Too many Gods, but the Profane has none:  
Unless himself his Deity he make,  
And for his fancied Heaven, the World does take.  
He breathes and moves, but to Religion Dead,  
All sense of Fear, of Love, or Care is fled.  
His Heart without Impression does remain,  
Tired Conscience there repeats her strokes in Vain.  
Custom of Sin this Senselessness has wrought,  
Inur'd, and to the Anvils Hardness brought.  
Long rooted Vice admits of no Redress,  
He pleads Prescription now for Wickedness.  
(By slow ascents these impious Heights we gain,  
Are sinful Born, but make ourselves Profane:)  
Through Carelessness his Vicious Course begins,  
He Sins at last, and knows not that he Sins.  
Reason too late her Counsel would afford;  
She's now his Slave, and Appetite his Lord.  
Sense is his only Creed; if so it chance,  
That Piety his Interest may advance;  
A Cloak of Sanctity he can provide,  
And what he Counterfeits at once deride.  
Does Sacrifice to's Nets: when Projects hit,  
He either thanks his Fortune, or his Wit;  
But Providence must nought have there to do,  
He'll rather make false Gods than own the True.  
When aught miscarries, destinies to blame,  
On heavens Unkindness He does then exclaim.  
Reviles the Power, to whose Indulgent sway  
He would not be beholden if he may.  
Oft-times his Conscience fain with Him would speak,  
He sets the Day, but does th' Appointment break.  
And when aloud she does for Audience cry,  
He drowns the Noise with reveling Company.  
God's Name does never but in Oaths express,  
And never thinks of him but in Distress:  
And then his Thoughts in dark Confusion sink,  
'Cause He but then begins of him to Think.  
His Maker He'll accuse himself to free,  
And charges all his Gild on God's Decree.  
Ingratefully thinks his Condition hard,  
To be from Pleasure's poisoned Sweets debarred.  
Does Goodness, Minstrel-like, for sport bring forth,  
And sacred Things are still his choicest Mirth.  
To Mimickry turns Grace, and virtue's Rules,  
And best diverted with Religion's Fools.  
A Slander for each Virtue can invent,  
And in false Colours every Vice present.  
He boasts of his young Sins, and past offence,  
With cold Remembrance feeds his Impotence.  
Enormous Crimes the Libertine has wrought,  
Ambitious, yet more wicked to be Thought.  
A Lewder than Himself can grieve to see,  
And in Damnation grudge Precedency.  
Hell does in Him less fear than Death create,  
As being sure of This, and doubting That.  
To th' Church as to a Theatre resort,  
For Custom, Company, for Sleep, or Sport.  
Self-Love is All He ever Understood,  
Nor that enough to seek his own true Good.  
He breaks through Gratitude and Friendship's Ties,  
Nor cares on whom he treads, so he may Rise.  
His Life does one licentious Practice seem,  
And every Vice its Centre has in Him.  
God's Hatred, and his Curse; a Mass of Evil,  
In Body only differing from a Devil.   

THE BUSY-BODY.  
HIS own Estate's too narrow for his Mind,  
And Room in other Men's Affairs He'll find.  
In Friend and Strangers Business He will move,  
And ever with the same Pretence of Love.  
No News can pass his Door, and, good or ill,  
He cannot know the Thing he does not tell.  
He knows the Rates of Traffic to a Hair,  
What Forces the Confederates can prepare,  
How Swedeland, and how Denmark will declare.  
Though traveling on Affairs of Life and Death,  
He'll stop the Post, and Talk him out of Breath.  
And if his Humour, or his Hast Refuse,  
Ride back with him, and piece-meal catch the News.  
And if through Speed th' Intelligence does fail,  
His Wit Supplies, and makes a perfect Tale.  
Then Woe to the next Man that He comes near,  
Blow, Rain, or Lighten, he must stay to hear;  
And hear him out, while in a tedious round,  
The Listner and Himself he does Confound.  
Disjointedly each Sentence does express,  
With long Successions of Parentheses.  
Retrencht, to let his stream of Matter run,  
But Vows to fill 'em up e'er He has done.  
If two together in the street He views  
Discoursing closely, He concludes strange News.  
But if a Letter be produced, He's charmed,  
And of the Secret begs to be informed.  
Denied, it serves his Turn almost as well,  
If Him of Wonders they'll permit to tell.  
Then with a Scotish Mine he does begin,  
Of a whole Shoal of Whales come up at Linn.  
Thank Him, a thousand Times your Thanks repeat,  
All's One, his Tongue it's Alarm must complete.  
You'll name no Undertaking which He'll balk,  
But all Concludes, where it Commenced, in Talk.  
He'll teach Another what Himself ne'er knew,  
And be a Guide in Ways he ne'er passed through.  
Look in at's Neighbour's Window, and demand  
The Reason why his Servants idle stand.  
Called to Another's Table, 'tis his way  
To slander some Third Person, and Convey  
The Tale to him that's wronged, whom having sworn  
To Secrecy, with speed he does return  
To his first Host, and this dark Practice ply,  
Till Both are set on Fire they know not why.  
His Ears are Quick, and no less quick his Eyes,  
To Imperfections These, and Those to Lies.  
He stops Another's Servant, takes him in,  
Treats him, and does his Master's Health begin;  
Thence slily falls to ask of his Affairs,  
What sort of Company t' his House repairs;  
What is their usual Fare, and what Discourse  
Passes at Meals. Thus does th' Extorter force;  
But, soon as drained, the Guest his leave must take,  
And Room for fresh Intelligencers make.  
This Man thinks Constancy a dull disgrace,  
And still is shifting of his Work and Place;  
But of no Place can half so weary seem,  
Or half so soon, as is the Place of Him.  
In each Acquaintance he has got a Foe,  
For not to hate him you must Him not know.  
He toils unthanked, he talks without Belief,  
Living has no Man's Love, Dead, no Man's Grief;  
Unless by Chance the last Defect's supplied,  
And some may Grieve that he no sooner Died.   

THE ENVIOUS.  
THE Envious feeds upon his Neighbour's Ills,  
And no Disease, but others Welfare, feels.  
God's Benefits perversely does destroy;  
With Company no Blessing can enjoy.  
Would rather have Superiors in Distress,  
Than Equals in a common Happiness.  
He's an ill Prizer of his Neighbour's store,  
And yet, his own computing, He errs more:  
On neither the just Value will bestow,  
For, That he rates too High, and This too Low.  
He asks in what Repute his Equals Live;  
About his Betters more Inquisitive.  
If just Report his Envious search defeat,  
In closer Terms his Question He'll repeat.  
And when his spite can fasten on no Flaw,  
His Snakes turn back his own rank Heart to gnaw.  
With God he quarrels, if his Neighbour's Field  
With better Tillage, fairer Grain does yield.  
For one Chance-Blight he murmurs and inveys,  
For Ten Successive Crops no Thanks repays.  
Whom openly He dares not to traduce,  
With Short or Over-praise He will abuse.  
Allows his Rival all things but his Right,  
And most in Commendation shows his Spite.  
If Courteous his Competitor appear,  
He's then Inveigling, Crafty, Popular.  
If Bountiful, a Faction is designed,  
To which with Bribes he does his Clients bind.  
And if in War his Rival has success,  
He's so much more a dangerous Man in Peace.  
By Industry in Wealth, or Power grown strong,  
He's hoarding up of means for future wrong.  
Thus does the Envious Man distort and force  
True Worth, and turn each Virtue to a Curse.  
In his Religion Policy still lurks,  
And by Submission his Ambition works.  
No Law, that had the Public Good enclosed,  
Can pass, because by Him not first Proposed.  
Not his own Interest for that time he weighs,  
But Suffers, to defraud Another's Praise.  
If Evil of his Rival, Fame report,  
He cries she's Partial, and of Truth comes short.  
What Prejudice relates, as being worst,  
In his Recital He still mentions first:  
Knowing that gentler Truth too slowly treads,  
And that the first ill Rumour farthest spreads.  
He'll stab i' th' Dark, and then with pitying Voice  
Bemoan the Fate that makes his Heart Rejoice.  
Of his ill Deeds his Nature is the Cause,  
The Good He Acts is only for Applause.  
And that which cannot to his share befall  
To do, He still takes Care no other shall.  
Of his Best Skill He just enough will show,  
To let the World perceive what He does know;  
His Med'cine's sovereign Use he will reveal,  
The Art to make't, does even in Death Conceal;  
Pleased that he can a Prize from Mankind steal.  
God's Blessings, if beside Himself they fall,  
His Curses prove, and make Him burst with Gall.  
Yet after All there's none can grudge the Elf  
His Diet, for the Miscreant eats Himself.  
To turn a Devil He waits but his Life's End,  
Till then a Carcase quickened by a Fiend.  
FINIS.   

THE Life of Alexander the Great, Written in Latin by Quintus Curtius, Translated into English by several Hands, and now Dedicated to the QUEEN. By N. Tate.