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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 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. i By me his late estate he won,

But he by folly was undone."



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F 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 fix hours before we dine :





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

A pamphlet is before him spread,
And almost half a page is read;
Tir'd with the study of the day,
The fluttering 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'ad read an hour or more.
The morning, of all hours, I hate.
One can't contrive to rise too late.”

To make the minutes faster run,
Then, too, his tiresome self to fhun,
To the next coffee-house he speeds,
Takes up the news, fome scraps he reads.
Sauntering, from chair to chair he trails;
Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails.
He spies a partner of his woe;
By chat afflictions lighter grow;
Each other's grievances they share,
And thus their dreadful hours compare.

Says Tom, “ Since all men must confess,
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: 35
By cards long wintery nights are borne.





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

“ My case, says Will, then must be hard,
By want of skill from play debarr’d.
Courtiers kill time by various ways;
Dependence wears out half their days.
How happy these, whose time ne'er stands ! 45
Attendance takes it off their hands.
Were it not for this cursed shower,
The Park had wil'd away an hour.
At court, without or place or view,
I daily lose an hour or two:

50 It fully answers my design, 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.

55 Where can one go? I hate the play. From fix till ten! unless in sleep, One cannot spend the hours fo cheap. The comedy 's no sooner done, But fome afembly is begun;

60 Loitering from room to room I stray, Converse, but nothing hear or say: 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, 65 Again my tavern-friends invite:


Here, too, our early mornings pass,
Till drowsy sleep retard the glass.”

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

Consider, friends, no hour rolls on But something of your grief is gone. Were you to schemes of business bred, Did you the paths of learning tread, Your hours, your days, would fly too fast; 75 You'd then regret the minute pait. Time's fugitive and light as wind: 'Tis indolence that clogs your mind: That load from off your fpirits shake, You'll own, and grieve for, your mistake. 80 A while your thoughtless spleen suspend, 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.

85 Each star'd upon the stranger's face, Till recollection set them right, For each knew th' other but by fight. After some complimental talk, Time met them, bow'd, and join'd their walk. 30 Their chat on various subjects ran, Lut mott, what each had done for man. Plutus affames a haughty air, Just like our purse-proud fellows here.

r. Let kings, says he, let cobblers tell, 95 Whofe gifts among mankind excel.


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Consider courts; what draws their train ?
Think you 'tis loyalty or gain?
That statesman hath the strongest hold,
Whofe tool of politics is gold;
By that, in former reigns, 'tis faid,
The knave in power hath senates led:
By that alone he sway'd debates,
Enrich'd himself, and beggar'd states.
Forego your boast. You must conclude,
That's most esteem'd that's most pursued.
Think, too, in what a woeful plight
That wretch must live whose pocket's light.
Are not his hours by warıt deprest?
Penarious care corrodes his breast.
Without respect, or love, or friends,
His folitary day defcends."

“ You might, says Cupid, doubt my parts,
My knowledge, too, in human hearts,
Should I the power of gold dispute, 115
Which great examples might confute.
I know, when nothing else prevails,
Persuasive money feldom fails;
That beauty, too, (like other wares)
Its price, as well as conscience, bears.
Then marriage (as of late profeft)
Is but a money-jobb at best.
Confent, compliance, may be fold;
But love's beyond the price of gold.
Smugglers there are, who, by retail,

123 Expose what they call Love to fale;



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