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Shall I, who boast a noble line,
On offals of these creatures dine.?
Kickd by old Ball! so mean a foe?
My honour suffers by the blow.
Newmarket speaks my grandfire's fame;
All jockeys still revere his name:
There, yearly, are his triumphs told,
There all his maffy plates enroll'd.
Whene'er led forth upon the plain,
You saw him with a livery 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.” 80
“ Vain-glorious fool! (the Carrier cry'd)
Respect was never paid to pride.
Know 'twas thy giddy wilful heart
Reduc'd thee to this flavish part,
Did not thy headftrong youth disdain 85
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 restive, pert, conceited fot?
Your fires I reverence; 'tis their due;
But, worthless fool, what's that to you?
Akk all the Carriers on the road,
They ’ll say, thy keeping 's ill bestow'd ;
Then vaunt no more thy noble race,
95 That neither mends thy strength or pace.
What profits me thy boast of blood ?
An ass has more intrinsic good.
By outward show let's not be cheated ;
An ass should like an ass be treated."
SOON as your father's death was known,
(As if th' 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.
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.
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 this you do, whene’er you play Among the gentlemen of prey.
Could fools to keep their own contrive, 25 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
could idleness be fed ?
Could thefe profeffors 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, 35
And 'scape the noose from year to year.
Consider, ere you make the bett,
That sum might cross your taylor's debt.
When you the pilfering rattle shake,
Is not your honour, too, at stake?
Must you not by mean lyes evade
To-morrow's duns from every trade;
By promises so often paid,
Is yet your taylor's bill defray'd ?
Muft you not pitifully fawn
45 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 difinember'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 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 shewn to age or kind;
The general 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 barbarous hands for hire?)
With brawny arms repeat the stroke ;
Fall'n are the elm and reverend oak.
Through 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 bofom now with fury burns ;
Beneath his hoof the dice he spurns.
Cards, too, in peevish passion torn,
The sport of whirling winds are borne. 80
" 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 a forest low.
The cards are dealt, the bett is made,
And the wide park hath lost its shade.
90 Thus is my kingdom's pride defac’d, And all its antient glories waste. All this (he cries) is Fortune's doing : "Tis thus she meditates my ruin. By Fortune, that false, fickle jade,
95 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 paft, O’erheard the vile aspersion cast.
Why, Pan, (says she) what 's all this rant? 'Tis
every country y-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.