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Shall I, who boaft a noble line,
On offals of thefe creatures dine?
Kick'd by old Ball! fo mean a foe?
My honour fuffers by the blow.
Newmarket fpeaks my grandfire's fame;
All jockeys ftill revere his name:
There, yearly, are his triumphs told,
There all his maffy plates enroll'd.
Whene'er led forth upon

the plain,

You faw him with a livery train;

Returning, too, with laurels crown'd,

You heard the drums and trumpets found.
Let it then, Sir, be understood,

Refpect's my due, for I have blood."

"Vain-glorious fool! (the Carrier cry'd)

Refpect was never paid to pride.
Know 'twas thy giddy wilful heart
Reduc'd thee to this flavish part,
Did not thy headstrong youth disdain
To learn the conduct of the rein?
Thus coxcombs, blind to real merit,

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?

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Ask all the Carriers on the road,

They'll fay, thy keeping 's ill beftow'd;

Then vaunt no more thy noble race,

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That neither mends thy ftrength or pace.

What

What profits me thy boast of blood?
An ass has more intrinfic good.

By outward fhow let's not be cheated;
An afs fhould like an afs be treated."

100

SOON

FABLE XII.

PAN AND FORTUNE.

To a young Heir.

as your father's death was known,
(As if th' eftate had been their own)

The gamefters outwardly expreft
The decent joy within your breast.
So lavish in your praise they grew,
As fpoke 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 fize.

Then count his jewels and his plate.
Befides, 'tis no entail'd eftate.

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.

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Would

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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?
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 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 risks for prey,
And ftrip the traveller on the way.
Thus in your annual rents they share,
And 'fcape the noose from year to year.

Confider, ere you make the bett,

That fum might crofs your taylor's debt.
When you the pilfering rattle shake,
Is not your honour, too, at ftake?

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This must be done. In debts of play,

Your honour fuffers no delay;

And

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 now, to gaols 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 lift,

Upon court-charity subfift.

You'll find at laft this maxim true,

Fools are the game which knaves pursue.
The foreft (a whole century's fhade)

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,
For duns grow louder at the

gate.

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Stern clowns, obedient to the 'fquire,

(What will not barbarous hands for hire?)

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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,
The sport of whirling winds are borne.

"To fnails inveterate hate I bear, Who spoil the verdure of the year; The caterpillar I deteft,

The blooming Spring's voracious peft;
The locuft, too, whofe ravenous band
Spreads fudden famine o'er the land.
But what are thefe? the dice's throw
At once hath laid a foreft low.
The cards are dealt, the bett is made,
And the wide park hath loft its shade.
Thus is my kingdom's pride defac'd,
And all its antient glories waste.
All this (he cries) is Fortune's doing:
'Tis thus fhe 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 paft,

O'erheard the vile afperfion caft.

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$5

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"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,

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To mark the cards, or range the deal?

In all th' employments men purfue,

I mind the leaft what gamefters do.

There

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