Shall I, who boaft a noble line, the plain, You faw him with a livery train; Returning, too, with laurels crown'd, You heard the drums and trumpets found. Refpect's my due, for I have blood." "Vain-glorious fool! (the Carrier cry'd) Refpect was never paid to pride. In vicious frolics fancy fpirit. What is 't to me by whom begot, Thou reftive, pert, conceited fot? Your fires I reverence; 'tis their due; But, worthless fool, what 's that to you? 70 75 80 85 90 Ask all the Carriers on the road, They'll fay, thy keeping 's ill beftow'd; Then vaunt no more thy noble race, 95 That neither mends thy ftrength or pace. What What profits me thy boast of blood? By outward fhow let's not be cheated; 100 SOON FABLE XII. PAN AND FORTUNE. To a young Heir. as your father's death was known, The gamefters outwardly expreft One counts your income of the year, "No house, says he, is more complete; Then count his jewels and his plate. If cash run low, his lands in fee Are, or for fale or mortgage, free.” Thus they, before you threw the main, Seem to anticipate their gain. Would Would you, when thieves are known abroad, Bring forth your treasures in the road? Would not the fool abet the ftealth, Who rafhly thus expos'd his wealth? Could fools to keep their own contrive, 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 ? Confider, ere you make the bett, That fum might crofs your taylor's debt. 20 25 30 35 40 This must be done. In debts of play, Your honour fuffers no delay; And And not this year's and next year's rent Look round, the wrecks of play behold, Some, who the spoil of knaves were made, Become the dirty tools of power; And, with the mercenary lift, Upon court-charity subfift. You'll find at laft this maxim true, Fools are the game which knaves pursue. Must be one wafteful ruin made: No mercy 's fhewn to age or kind; The general massacre is sign'd. The park, too, fhares the dreadful fate, gate. 50 55 60 65 Stern clowns, obedient to the 'fquire, (What will not barbarous hands for hire?) 70 Pan drops a tear, and hangs his head: His bofom now with fury burns ; Beneath his hoof the dice he spurns. Cards, Cards, too, in peevish passion torn, "To fnails inveterate hate I bear, Who spoil the verdure of the year; The caterpillar I deteft, The blooming Spring's voracious peft; By Fortune, that falfe, fickle jade, Fortune, by chance, who near him paft, O'erheard the vile afperfion caft. 80 $5 90 95 100 "Why, Pan, (fays fhe) what 's all this rant? 'Tis every country-bubble's cant. Am I the patronefs of vice? Is 't I who cog or palm the dice ? Did I the fhuffling art reveal, 105 To mark the cards, or range the deal? In all th' employments men purfue, I mind the leaft what gamefters do. There |