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The park, too, shares the dreadful fate;
For duns grow louder at the gate.
Stern clowns, obedient to the squire,
(What will not barbarous hands for hire?)
With brawny arms repeat the stroke;
Fall'n are the elm and reverend oak.
Through the long wood, loud axes sound,
And Echo groans with every wound.
To see the desolation spread,
Pan drops a tear, and hangs his head:
His bosom now with fury burns,
Beneath his hoof, the dice he spurns.
Cards, too, in peevish passion torn,
The sport of whirling winds, are borne.
"To snails, inveterate hate I bear,
Who spoil the verdure of the year;
The caterpillar I detest,

The blooming Spring's voracious pest;
The locust, too, whose ravenous band
Spreads sudden famine o'er the land;
But what are these? The dice's throw
At once, hath laid a forest low.1
The cards are dealt, the bet is made,
And the wide park hath lost its shade.
Thus is my kingdom's pride defaced,
And all its ancient glories waste.
All this," he cries, "is Fortune's doing:
"Tis thus she meditates my ruin.

By Fortune, that false, fickle jade!

More havoc in one hour is made,

(1) Smith, the author of "Gaieties and Gravities," defines dice "Playthings which the devil sets in motion, when he wants a new supply of knaves, beggars and suicides."

Than all the hungry insect-race,
Combined, can in an age deface."

Fortune, by chance, who near him past,
O'erheard the vile aspersion cast:

"Why, Pan," says she, "what's all this rant? "Tis every country-bubble's cant.

Am I the patroness of vice?

Is't I who cog or palm the dice?
Did I the shuffling art reveal,
To mark the cards, or range the deal?
In all th' employments men pursue,
I mind the least, what gamesters do.
There may (if computation's just)
One, now and then, my conduct trust.
I blame the fool, for what can I,
When ninety-nine, my power defy?
These trust alone, their fingers' ends,
And not one stake, on me, depends.
Whene'er the gaming-board is set,
Two classes of mankind are met;
But if we count the greedy race,
The knaves, fill up the greater space.
'Tis a gross error, held in schools,
That Fortune always favours fools.
In play, it never bears dispute;
That doctrine, these fell'd oaks confute.
Then why to me, such rancour show?
"Tis Folly, Pan, that is thy foe.
By me, his late estate he won,

But he by Folly, was undone."

(1) So infatuated is the mind by itself, that, so long as it can throw blame upon physical or moral constitution, peculiarity of circumstances, or even upon

that ghost of a subterfuge, Fortune, it will attribute to each, or all, of these, the results of its own folly. Yet of all persons most to be pitied, he who is styled, "a man of fortune," is entitled to our commiseration, when we consider the vastness of his responsibilities, and the insidiousness of his temptations. Released from the necessity of employing the body, or mind, he loses the two great elements of happiness, and health. He is surrounded by sycophants he cannot trust, and by seductions he can hardly repel; with everything to fear, he has nothing to hope, and pays by the anxiety of his mind, a heavy interest, for the wealth which surfeits his spirit. The gifts of fortune, as Terence remarks, depend for good or ill upon the disposition of the possessors:

"Hæc perinde sunt ut illius animus qui ea possidet,

Qui uti scit, ei bona; illi qui non utitur recte, mala."-HEAUT. I. iii. 21. Should the young heir, in search of stimulant to fill up the "ennui" of prosperity, enter upon gambling, the race is soon run through the different courses of recklessness, mortgage, embarrassment, insolvency, despair. The vice grows more rooted, as the game becomes more fearfully important-"insomuch," as old George Whetstone observes, speaking of the prevalency of gaming in Elizabeth's time, "I heard a distemperate dicer solemnly sweare, that he faithfully believed, that dice were first made of the bones of a witch, and cards of her skin, in which there hath ever sithence remained an inchantment, yt whosoever once taketh delight in either, he shall never have power utterly to leave them." Vide" The Enemie to Unthryftinesse," 1586.

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OF all the burdens man must bear, Time, seems most galling and severe : Beneath this grievous load oppress'd, We daily meet some friend distress'd.

"What can one do? I rose at nine: "Tis full six hours before we dine: Six hours! no earthly thing to do! Would I had dozed in bed till two."

A pamphlet is before him spread, And almost half a page is read;

Tired with the study of the day,
The fluttering sheets are toss'd away;

He

opes his snuff-box, hums an air, Then yawns, and stretches in his chair,

"Not twenty, by the minute hand! Good gods!" says 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 rise too late." To make the minutes faster run, Then, too, his tiresome self to shun, To the next coffee-house he speeds, Takes up the news-some scraps he reads. Sauntering 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 share, And thus their dreadful hours compare. Says Tom, "Since all men must confess

That time lies heavy, more or less,

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 case," says Will, "then must be hard,

By want of skill from play debarr'd.

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