Графични страници
PDF файл
ePub

Must I, too, bear the vile attacks
Of ragged scrubs and vulgar hacks?
See scurvy Roan, that brute ill-bred,
Dares from the manger thrust my head!
Shall I, who boast a noble line,
On offals of these creatures dine?
Kick'd by old Ball! so mean a foe!
My honour suffers by the blow.
Newmarket speaks my grandsire's fame,
All jockies still revere his name:
There yearly are his triumphs told,
There all his massy plates enroll'd.
Whene'er led forth upon the plain,
You saw him with a liv'ry train,
Returning, too, with laurels crown'd,
You heard the drums and trumpets sound.
Let it then, Sir, be understood,
Respect's my due, for I have blood.
Vainglorious Fool! (the Carrier cry'd)
Respect was never paid to pride.
Know 'twas thy giddy wilful heart
Reduc'd thee to this slavish part.
Did not thy headstrong youth disdain
To learn the conduct of the rein?
Thus coxcombs, blind to real merit,
In vicious frolics fancy spirit.
What is't to me by whom begot?
Thou restive, pert, conceited sot.

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

Your sires I rev'rence; 'tis their due:

But, worthless Fool, what's that to you?
Ask all the Carriers on the road,
They'll say thy keeping's ill bestow'd.
Then vaunt no more thy noble race,
That neither mends thy strength or pace.
What profits me thy boast of blood?
An ass hath more intrinsic good.
By outward show let's not be cheated;
An ass should like an ass be treated.

FABLE XII.

PAN AND FORTUNE.

100

To a young Heir.

Soon as your father's death was known,
(As if the estate had been their own)
The gamesters outwardly exprest
The decent 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 house, 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.

Volume III.

10

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.
Thro' the long wood loud axes sound,
And Echo groans with ev'ry 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,

70

The sport of whirling winds are borne.

80

To snails invet'rate hate I bear,

Who spoil the verdure of the year;

The caterpillar I detest,

זי

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.

go

Thus is my kingdom's pride defac'd,

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 havock in one hour is made,

Than all the hungry insect race

Combin'd can in an age deface.

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

Why, Pan, (says he) what's all this rant?

'Tis ev'ry 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 pow'r 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.

100

110

120

126

By me his late estate he won,

But he by Folly was undone.

F

FABLE XIII.

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 doz'd in bed till two.

[ocr errors]

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 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 cann't contrive to rise too late.

To make the minutes faster run,
Then, too, his tiresome self to shun,

10

20

« ПредишнаНапред »