Графични страници
PDF файл


To a Young Heir.
QOON as your father's death was known,

(As if th' estate had been their own)
The gamesters outwardly exprest
The dccent joy within your breast :
So lavish in your praise they grew,
As spoke their certain hopes in you.

One counts your income of the year,
How much in ready money clear.
No houle, says he, is more complete,
The garden's elegant and great.
How fine the park around it lies !
The timber's of a noble size.
Then count his jewels and his plate ;
Belices, 'tis no entail'd estate.
If cash run low, his lands in fee
Are or for sale 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 treasures 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
Ainong the gentlemen of prey.

Could fools to keep their own contrive,
On what, on whom would gamefters thrive ?
ls it in charity you game,
To save your worthy gang from shame?
Unlets you furnish'd daily bread,
Which way could idleness be fed ?
Could there 'profeflors of deceit
Within the law no longer cheat,
They must run bolder risques for prey,
And strip the trav'ler on the way.


[ocr errors]

Thus in your annual rents they share,
And 'scape the noose from year to year,

Consider, 'ere you make the bet,
That sum might cross your taylor's debt.
When you the pilf'ring rattle fhake,
Is not your honour too at stake?
Must you not by mean lies evade
To-morrow's duns from every trade ?
By promises so often paid,
Is yet your taylor's bill defray'd ?
Must you not pitifully fawn,
To have your butcher's writ withdrawn?
This must be done. In debts of play
Your honour suffers no delay :
And not this year's and next year's rent
The sons of rapine can content.

Look round, -the wrecks of play behold,
Estates dismeinber'd, mortgag'd, fold!
Their owners, not to jails confin'd, .
Show equal poverty of mind.
Some, who the spoil 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 pursue.

The forest, a whole cent'ry's Thade,
Must be one wasteful ruin made;
No mercy's shown' to age or kind,
The gen’ral massacre is fign'd;
The park too shares 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;

T 3


Thro' the long wood loud axes found,
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 înails inveterate hate I bear, Who spoil the verdure of the year ; The caterpillar I deteft, The blooming spring's voracious pest: The locust too, whose rav'nous band Spreads sudden famine o'er the land. But what are these? The dice's throw At once hath laid a forest low : The cards are dealt, the bet is made, And the wide park hath lost 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 "false, 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 aspersion cast. Why, Pan, fays the, what's all this rant? 'Tis every country booby's cant. Am I the patronefs of vice? Is't I wlio cog or palm the dice ? Did I the fhuffing art reveal, To mark the cards, or range the deal ? In all the employments men pursue, I mind the least wliat 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 finger ends,
And not one stake on me depends.
Whene'er the gaming board is fet,
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 fellid oaks confute.
Then why to me such rancour fhew ?
'Tis Folly, Pan, that is thy foe.
By me his low estate hé won,
But he by Folly was undone.


F all the burthens man must bear,
U Time seems most galling and severe ;
Beneath this grievous load opprest
We daily meet some friend distrest.

What can one do? I rose 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 spread,
And almost half a page is read;
Tir'd with the study of the day,
The flutt'ring sheets are tost away.
He opes his snuff-box, hums an air,
Then yawns and stretches in his chair.

Not twenty, by the minute-land!
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 felf to. Thun,
To the next coffeehouse he speeds,
Takes up the news, fome scraps 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 thare,
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 wint'ry 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:
Dependence wears out half their days.
I low happy those, whose time ne'er stands!
Attendance takes it off their hands.
'Were it not for this cursed show'r;
The park had whild 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 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.


« ПредишнаНапред »