LXII. PAN and FORTUNE.

To a Young Heir.

OON as your father's death was known,

S (as if the cftate had been their own)

The gamefters outwardly expreft
The decent joy within your breaft :
So lavish in your praife they grew,
As fpoke their certain hopes in you.
One counts your income of the year,
How much in ready money clear.
No houfe, fays he, is more complete,
The garden's elegant and great.
How fine the park around it lies!
The timber's of a noble fize.
'Then count his jewels and his plate;
Befides, 'tis no entail'd eftate.

If cath run low, his lands in fee
Are or for fale or mortgage free.

Thus they, before you threw the main,
Seem'd to anticipate their gain.

Would you, when thieves are known abroad,
Bring forth your treafures in the road?
Would not the fool abet the stealth,
Who rafhly thus expos'd his wealth?
Yet thus you do, whene'er you play
Among the gentlemen of prey.

Could fools to keep their own contrive,
On what, on whom would gamefters thrive?
Is it in charity you game,

To fave your worthy gang from shame?
Unless you furnish'd daily bread,
Which way could idlenefs be fed?
Could thefe profeffors of deceit
Within the law no longer cheat,*
They must run bolder rifques for prey,
And ftrip the trav'ler on the way.

Thus

Thus in your annual rents they share,
And 'fcape the noofe from year to year.
Confider, 'ere you make the bet,
That fum might crofs your taylor's debt.
When you the pilf'ring rattle flake,
Is not your honour too at ftake ?
Muft you not by mean lies evade
To-morrow's duns from every trade?
By promifes fo often paid,

Is yet your taylor's bill defray'd?'
Muft you not pitifully fawn,

To have your butcher's writ withdrawn?
This must be done. In debts of play
Your honour fuffers no delay:

And not this year's and next year's rent

The fons of rapine can content.

Look round, the wrecks of play behold,
Eftates difmember'd, mortgag'd, fold!
Their owners, not to jails confin'd,

Show equal poverty of mind.

Some, who the fpoil of knaves were made,

Too late attempt to learn their trade.

Some, for the folly of one hour,

Become the dirty tools of power;
And, with the mercenary list,
Upon court-charity fubfift.

You'll find at least this maxim true,
Fools are the game which knaves purfue.
The foreft, a whole cent'ry's fhade,
Must be one wafteful ruin made;
No mercy's fhown to age or kind,
The gen'ral maffacre is fign'd;
The park too fhares the dreadful fate,
For duns grow louder at the gate.
Stern clowns, obedient to the Squire,
(What will not barb rous hands for hire?)
With brawny arms repeat the stroke;
Fall'n are the elm and rev'rend oak;

T3

Thro'

Thro' the long wood loud axes found,
And Echo groans with every wound.
To fee the defolation fpread,

Pan drops a tear, and hangs his head;
His bofom now with fury burns,
Beneath his hoof the dice he fpurns;
Cards too, in peevish paffion torn,
The fport of whirling winds are borne.
To fnails inveterate hate I bear,
Who fpoil the verdure of the year;
The caterpillar I deteft,

The blooming fpring's voracious pest:
The locuft too, whofe rav'nous band
Spreads fudden famine o'er the land.
But what are thefe? The dice's throw
At once hath laid a forest low:

The cards are dealt, the bet is made,
And the wide park hath loft its fhade.
Thus is my kingdom's pride defac'd,
And all its ancient glories wafte.
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 past, O'erheard the vile afperfion caft.

Why, Pan, fays the, what's all this rant? 'Tis every country booby's cant.

Am I the patronefs of vice?

Is't I who cog or palm the dice?
Did I the fhuffling art reveal,

To mark the cards, or range the deal?
In all the employments men purfue,
I mind the leaft what gamefters do.
There may, if computation's juft,
One now and then my conduct trust:

I blame the fool; for what can I,
When ninety-nine my power defy?
These truft alone their finger 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 thefe fell'd oaks confute.
Then why to me fuch rancour fhew?
'Tis Folly, Pan, that is thy foe.
By me his low eftate he won,
But he by Folly was undone.

OF

LXIII. CUPID, PLUTUS, and TIME.

F all the burthens man muft bear,
Time feems moft galling and fevere;
Beneath this grievous load oppreft
We daily meet fome friend diftreft.
What can one do? I rofe at nine.
"Tis full fix hours before we dine:
Six hours! no earthly thing to do!
Would 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 ftudy of the day,
The flutt'ring fheets are toft away.
He opes his fnuff-box, hums an air,
Then yawns and ftretches in his chair.
Not twenty, by the minute-hand!

Good Gods! fays he, my watch muft ftand !
How muddling 'tis on books to pore!
I thought I'd read an hour or more.

The

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 felf to, shun,
To the next coffeehoufe 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 fpies a partner of his woe;
By chat afflictions lighter grow;
Each other's grievances they fhare,
And thus their dreadful hours compare:
Says Tom, fince all men must confess
That time lies heavy more or lefs;
Why should it be fo hard to get,
'Till two, a party at piquet?

Play might relieve the lagging morn:
By cards long wint'ry nights are borne.
Does not quadrille amufe the fair,
Night after night, throughout the year?
Vapours and fpleen forgot, at play.
They cheat uncounted hours away.

My cafe, fays Will, then must be hard,
By want of skill from play debarr'd.
Courtiers kill. Time by various ways:
Dependence wears out half their days.
How happy thofe, 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 anfwers my defign,

When I have pick'd up friends to dine.
The tavern makes our burthen 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.

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