Then, count his jewels and his plate!
Besides, '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 to anticipate their gain.

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

Could fools to keep their own contrive,

On what, on whom, could gamesters thrive? Is it in charity you game,

To save your worthy gang from shame ?

Unless you furnish'd daily bread,

Which way could idleness be fed?
Could these professors of deceit
Within the law no longer cheat,
They must run bolder risks for prey
And strip the traveller on the way.
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 tailor's debt.
When you the pilfering rattle shake,
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 ta lor's bill defray'd?
Must you not pitifully fawn,

To have your butcher's writs withdrawn?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 dismember'd, mortaged, sold!
Their owners, now to jails confined,
Show equal poverty of mind.

Some who the spoil of knaves were ma le,
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 subsist.

You'll find at last this maxim true,Fools are the game which knaves pursue.

The forest (a whole century's shade),

Must be one wasteful ruin made:
No mercy's shown to age or kind;
The general massacre is signed.
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 ;

Fallen 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 the forest low.
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,
Than all the hungry insect race,
Combined, can in an age deface."

Fortune, by chance who near him pass'd,
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 the 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 Le by Folly was undone."

PLUTUS, CUPID, AND TIME.

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.