FABLE XII.

PAN and FORTUNE.

TO A YOUNG

HEIR.

OON as your father's death was known,'

SOON

(As if th' eftate had been their own)
The gamefters outwardly expreft
The decent joy within your breaft.
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 houfe, fays he, is more compleat;
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 you, when thieves were known abroad,

Bring forth your treafures 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 these profeffors of deceit
Within the law no longer cheat,
They muft run bolder risks for prey,
And trip the trav'ler on the way.
Thus in your annual rents they share,
And 'fcape the noofe from year to year.
Confider, ere you make the bett,

That fum might cross your tailor's debt.
When you the pilf'ring rattle shake,
Is not your honour too at ftake?
Muft you not by mean lies evade
To-morrow's duns from ev'ry trade?

By

By promises so often paid,

Is yet your tailor's bill defray'd?

Muft you not pitifully fawn,

To have your butcher's writ withdrawn?

This must be done. In debts of play
Your honour fuffers no delay:

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, not to jails confin'd,
Shew 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 pow'r,

And, with the mercenary lift,
Upon court charity fubfift.

You'll find at laft this maxim true,

Fools are the game which knaves pursae.

The forest (a whole cent'ry's fhade)

Muft be one wafteful ruin- made.

No mercy's fhewn to age or kind;
The general maffacre 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 barb'rous hands for hire?)
With brawny arms repeat the stroke.

Fall'n are the elm and rev'rend: oak.·
Through the long wood loud axes found,
And echo groans with ev'ry wound.
To fee the defolation spread,

PAN drops a tear, and hangs his head:
His bofom now with fury burns:
Beneath his hoof the dice he fpurns.
Cards too, in peevish paffion torn,
The fport of whirling winds are borne.
To fnails invet'rate hate I bear,
Who fpoil the verdure of the year;
The caterpillar I deteft,

The blooming fpring's voracious; peft;
The locuft too, whofe rav'nous band
Spreads fudden famine o'er the land.
But what are these? The dice's throw
At once hath laid a foreft low.

The

The cards are dealt, the bett is made,
And the wide park hath loft its fhade.
Thus is my kingdom's pride defac'd,
And all its ancient glories wafte.
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.

Why, PAN (fays fhe) what's all this rant?

'Tis ev'ry 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,

To mark the cards, or range the deal?
In all th' employments men purfue,
I mind the leaft what gamefters do.
There may (if computation's just)
One now and then my conduct truft:
I blame the fool, for what can I,
When ninety-nine my pow'r defy?
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