TO A YOUNG HEIR.

Soon as your father's death was known, (As if the estate had been their own) The gamesters outwardly express'd 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.

_10 How fine the park around it lies!

The timber's of a n.o.ble size!

Then count his jewels and his plate.

Besides, 'tis no entailed 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 antic.i.p.ate their gain.

Would you, when thieves were known abroad, Bring forth your treasures in the road?

_20 Would not the fool abet the stealth, Who rashly thus exposed 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 save your worthy gang from shame?

Unless you furnished daily bread, Which way could idleness be fed?

_30 Could these professors 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, And 'scape the noose from year to year.

Consider, ere you make the bet, That sum might cross your tailor's debt.

When you the pilfering rattle shake, Is not your honour too at stake?

_40 Must you not by mean lies evade To-morrow's duns from every trade?

By promises so often paid, Is yet your tailor's bill defrayed?

Must you not pitifully fawn, To have your butcher's writ withdrawn?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.

_50 Look round. The wrecks of play behold, Estates dismembered, mortgaged, sold!

Their owners, not to jails confined, 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 list, Upon court-charity subsist.

_60 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 ma.s.sacre is signed.

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?) _70 With brawny arms repeat the stroke.

Fallen are the elm and reverend oak.

Through the long wood loud axes sound, And echo groans with every wound.

To see the desolation spread, Pan drops a tear, and hangs his head: His bosom now with fury burns: Beneath his hoof the dice he spurns.

Cards, too, in peevish pa.s.sion 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 bet is made, And the wide park hath lost its shade.

_90 Thus is my kingdom's pride defaced, And all its ancient glories waste.

All this,' he cries, 'is Fortune's doing: 'Tis thus she meditates my ruin.

By Fortune, that false, fickle jade, More havoc in one hour is made, Than all the hungry insect race, Combined, can in an age deface.'

Fortune, by chance, who near him pa.s.s'd, O'erheard the vile aspersion cast.

_100 'Why, Pan,' says she, 'what's all this rant?

'Tis every country-bubble's cant; Am I the patroness of vice?

Is't I who cog or palm the dice?

Did I the shuffling art reveal, 105 To mark the cards, or range the deal?

In all the employments men pursue, I mind the least what gamesters do.

There may (if computation's just) One now and then my conduct trust: _110 I blame the fool, for what can I, When ninety-nine my power defy?

These trust alone their fingers' ends, And not one stake on me depends.

Whene'er the gaming board is set, Two cla.s.ses of mankind are met: But if we count the greedy race, The knaves fill up the greater s.p.a.ce.

'Tis a gross error, held in schools, That Fortune always favours fools.

_120 In play it never bears dispute; That doctrine these felled oaks confute.

Then why to me such rancour show?

'Tis folly, Pan, that is thy foe.

By me his late estate he won, But he by folly was undone.'

FABLE XIII.

PLUTUS, CUPID, AND TIME.

Of all the burdens man must bear, Time seems most galling and severe: Beneath this grievous load oppressed, We daily meet some friend distressed.

'What can one do? I rose at nine.

'Tis full six hours before we dine: Six hours! no earthly thing to do!

Would I had dozed in bed till two.'

A pamphlet is before him spread, And almost half a page is read; _10 Tired with the study of the day, The fluttering sheets are tossed away.

He opes his snuff-box, hums an air, Then yawns, and stretches in his chair.

'Not twenty, by the minute hand!

Good G.o.ds:' says he, 'my watch must stand!

How muddling 'tis on books to pore!

I thought I'd read an hour or more, The morning, of all hours, I hate.

One can't contrive to rise too late.'

_20 To make the minutes faster run, Then too his tiresome self to shun, To the next coffee-house he speeds, Takes up the news, some sc.r.a.ps 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.

_30 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: By cards long wintry 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.'

_40 'My case,' says Will, 'then must be hard By want of skill from play debarred.

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

How happy these, whose time ne'er stands!

Attendance takes it off their hands.

Were it not for this cursed shower The park had whiled 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 picked up friends to dine, The tavern makes our burden light; Wine puts our time and care to flight.

At six (hard case!) they call to pay.

Where can one go? I hate the play.

From six till ten! Unless in sleep, One cannot spend the hours so cheap.

The comedy's no sooner done, But some a.s.sembly is begun; _60 Loit'ring from room to room I stray; Converse, but nothing hear or say: Quite tired, from fair to fair I roam.

So soon: I dread the thoughts of home.

From thence, to quicken slow-paced night, Again my tavern-friends invite: Here too our early mornings pa.s.s, Till drowsy sleep r.e.t.a.r.ds the gla.s.s.'

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

_70 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; You'd then regret the minute past, Time's fugitive and light as wind!