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."

fatuated is the mind by itself, that, so long as it can throw blame cal or moral constitution, peculiarity of circumstances, or even upon

R

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.

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.

Courtiers kill time by various ways;
Dependance wears out half their days.
How happy these, whose time ne'er stands!

Attendance takes it off their hands.
Were it not for this cursed shower,
The Park had whiled 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 six (hard case!) they call to pay.
Where can one go? I hate the play.
From six till ten! unless in sleep,
One cannot spend the hours so cheap.
The comedy's no sooner done
But some assembly is begun;
Loitering from room to room I stray,
Converse, but nothing hear or say:
Quite tired, from fair to fair I roam-
So soon! I dread the thoughts of home.
From thence, to quicken slow-paced Night,
Again my tavern-friends invite:

Here, too, our early mornings pass,
Till drowsy sleep retards the glass."

Thus they their wretched life bemoan,
And make each other's case, their own.

Consider, friends, no hour rolls on But something of your grief is gone. Were you to schemes of business bred, Did you the paths of learning tread,