But what are these? The dice's throw
At once hath laid a foreft low.
The cards are dealt, the bett is made,
And the wide park hath loft its shade.
Thus is my kingdom's pride defac'd,
And all its ancient glories waste,
All this (he cries) is FORTUNE's doing ::
'Tis thus the meditates my ruin.
By FORTUNE, that falfe fickle jade,
More havock in one hour is made,
Than all the hungry infect race,
Combin'd, can in an age deface.
FORTUNE, by chance, who near him paft, O'erheard the vile afperfion caft.
Why, PAN (fays fhe) what's all this rant ?? 'Tis ev'ry country-bubble's cant,
Am I the patronefs of vice?
I't I who cog or palm the dice ?
Did I the fhuffling art reveal,.
To mark the cards, or range the deal ?
In all th' employments men pursue,
I mind the leaft what gamefters do.
There may (if computation's juft)
One now and then my conduct truf:
I blame the fool, for what can I,
When ninety-nine my pow'r defy?
K 6
These truft alone their fingers ends,
And not one stake on me depends,
Whene'er the gaming board is fet,
Two claffes of mankind are met;
But if we count the greedy race,
The knaves fill up the greater space.
'Tis a grofs error, held in fchools,
That FORTUNE always favours fools.
In play it never bears difpute;
That doctrine these fell'd oaks confute.
Then why to me fuch rancour fhew ?
'Tis Folly, PAN, that is thy foe.
By me his late eftate he won,
But he by Folly was undone.
F all the burdens man muft bear,
Time feems most galling and fevere:
Beneath this grievous load opprefs'd,
We daily meet fome friend distress'd.
What can one do? I rofe at nine. 'Tis full fix hours before we dine : Six hours! no earthly thing to do! Wou'd I had doz'd in bed till two.
A pamphlet is before him fpread,
And almost half a page is read;
Tir'd with the study of the day,
The flutt'ring fheets are tofs'd away.
He opes his fnuff-box, hums an air,
Then yawns, and stretches in his chair.
Not twenty, by the minute hand!
Good gods! fays he, my watch must stand?
How muddling 'tis on books to pore!
I thought I'd read an hour or more.
The morning, of all hours, I hate,
One can't contrive to rife too late,
To make the minutes fafter run,,
Then too his tiresome self to fhun,
To the next coffee-house he speeds,
Takes up the news, fome fcraps he reads.
Saunt'ring, from chair to chair he trails;
Now drinks his tea, now. bites his nails..
He spies a partner of his woe;
By chat afflictions lighter grow;:
Each other's grievances they fhare,
And thus their dreadful hours compare.
Says Toм, fince all men must confess,.
That Time lies heavy more or lefs;
Why should it be so hard to get
Till two, a party at piquet?
Play might relieve the lagging morn:
By cards long wintry nights are borne.
Does not quadrille amuse the fair,
Night after night, throughout the year? -
Vapours and spleen forgot, at play
They cheat uncounted hours away.
My cafe, fays WILL, then must be hard
By want of fkill from play debarr'd.
Courtiers kill Time by various ways;
Dependance wears out half their days.
How happy thefe, whofe time ne'er ftands!.
Attendance takes it off their hands.
Were it not for this curfed fhow'r,
The park had whil'd away an hour.
At court, without or place or view,,
I daily lose an hour or two.
It fully answers my design,
When I have pick'd up friends to dine,.
The tavern makes our burden light;
Wine puts our Time and care to flight.
At fix (hard cafe!) they call to pay.
Where can one go? I hate the play.
From fix till ten! Unless I fleep,
One cannot spend the hours fo cheap..
The comedy's no fooner done,
But fome affembly is begun ;
Loit'ring from room to room I ftray ;:
Converse, but nothing hear or say:
Quite tir'd, from fair to fair I roam:
So foon: I dread the thoughts of home,
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