There may (if computation's juft)
One now and then my conduct trust.
I blame the fool, for what can I,
When ninety-nine my power defy?
These truft alone their fingers' ends,
And not one stake on me depends,
Whene'er the gaming-board is fet,
Two claffes of mankind are met;
But, if we count the greedy race,
The knaves fill up the greater space.
'Tis a grofs error held in schools,
That fortune always favours fools.
In play it never bears dispute;

That doctrine thefe fell'd oaks confute.
Then why to me fuch rancour show?

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'Tis Folly, Pan, that is thy foe.

By me his late eftate he won,

But he by folly was undone."

FABLE XIII.

PLUTUS, CUPID, AND TIME.

F all the burdens man must bear,

OF

Time feems moft galling and fevere:
Beneath this grievous load opprefs'd.
We daily meet fome friend distress'd.

"What can one do? I rofe at nine? 'Tis full fix hours before we dine :

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5

Six

Six hours! no earthly thing to do!
Would I had doz'd in bed till two!"

A pamphlet is before him fpread,
And almost half a page is read;
Tir'd with the study of the day,
The fluttering fheets are tofs'd away.
He opes his fnuff-box, hums an air,
Then yawns, and ftretches in his chair.
"Not twenty, by the minute-hand!
Good Gods, fays he, my watch must stand!
How muddling 'tis on books to pore!
I thought I'ad read an hour or more.
The morning, of all hours, I hate.
One can't contrive to rife too late."

To make the minutes fafter run,
Then, too, his tiresome felf to fhun,
To the next coffee-houfe he speeds,
Takes up the news, fome fcraps he reads.
Sauntering, from chair to chair he trails;
Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails.
He spies a partner of his woe;

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15

20

25

By chat afflictions lighter grow;

Each other's grievances they fhare,

And thus their dreadful hours compare.

30

Says Tom, "Since all men must confefs,

That Time lies heavy, more or less,

Why should it be so hard to get,

Till two, a party at Piquet?

Play might relieve the lagging morn:
By cards long wintery nights are borne.

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VOL. XXXVII.

N

Does

Does not Quadrille amuse the fair,
Night after night, throughout the year?
Vapours and spleen forgot, at play
They cheat uncounted hours away."

My cafe, fays Will, then must be hard, By want of skill from play debarr'd.

40

Courtiers kill time by various ways;
Dependence wears out half their days.

How happy thefe, whofe time ne'er stands!

45

Attendance takes it off their hands.

Were it not for this curfed fhower,

The Park had wil'd away an hour.

At court, without or place or view,
I daily lofe an hour or two:

It fully anfwers my defign,

When I have pick'd up friends to dine;
The tavern makes our burden light;
Wine puts our time and care to flight.
At fix (hard cafe!) they call to pay.
Where can one go? I hate the play.
From fix till ten! unlefs in fleep,
One cannot spend the hours fo cheap.
The comedy's no fooner done,
But fome affembly is begun;

Loitering from room to room I ftray,
Converfe, but nothing hear or fay:
Quite tir'd, from fair to fair I roam.
So foon! I dread the thoughts of home.
From thence, to quicken flow-pac'd night,
Again my tavern-friends invite:

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Here,

Here, too, our early mornings pafs,
Till drowsy fleep retard the glass.”

Thus they their wretched life bemoan,
And make each other's cafe their own.

Confider, friends, no hour rolls on But fomething of your grief is gone. Were you to schemes of business bred, Did you the paths of learning tread,

70

Your hours, your days, would fly too fast;

75

You'd then regret the minute past.

Time's fugitive and light as wind:
'Tis indolence that clogs your mind:
That load from off your spirits shake,
You'll own, and grieve for, your mistake.
A while your thoughtlefs fpleen fufpend,
Then read, and (if you can) attend.
As Plutus, to divert his care,

Walk'd forth one morn to take the air,

Cupid o'ertook his ftrutting pace.

Each ftar'd upon the ftranger's face,

Till recollection fet them right,

For each knew th' other but by fight.

After fome complimental talk,

Time met them, bow'd, and join'd their walk. 90

Their chat on various fubjects ran,

But moft, what each had done for man.

Plutus affumes a haughty air,

Juft like our purfe-proud fellows here.

"Let kings, fays he, let cobblers tell,

Whofe gifts among mankind excel.

N 2

95

Confider

Confider courts; what draws their train?
Think you 'tis loyalty or gain?

That statesman hath the ftrongest hold,
Whofe tool of politics is gold;

By that, in former reigns, 'tis faid,
The knave in power hath fenates led:
By that alone he fway'd debates,
Enrich'd himself, and beggar'd ftates.
Forego your boaft. You must conclude,
That's most efteem'd that's most purfued.
Think, too, in what a woeful plight
That wretch muft live whofe pocket's light.
Are not his hours by want depreft?

Penurious care corrodes his breast.

Without refpect, or love, or friends,
His folitary day defcends."

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"You might, fays Cupid, doubt my parts, My knowledge, too, in human hearts, Should I the power of gold difpute, Which great examples might confute. I know, when nothing elfe prevails, Perfuafive money feldom fails; That beauty, too, (like other wares) Its price, as well as confcience, bears. Then marriage (as of late profeft) Is but a money-jobb at beft. Confent, compliance, may be fold; But love's beyond the price of gold. Smugglers there are, who, by retail, Expofe what they call Love to fale;

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Such