What profits me thy boast of blood?
An afs hath more intrinfic good.
By outward fhow let's not be cheated;
An afs fhould like an afs be treated."
OON as your father's death was known,.
(As if th' eftate had been their own)
The gamefters outwardly expreft
The decent joy within your breast.
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 complete ;
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.
Would you, 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,
On what, on whom, could gamefters thrive?
They must run bolder risks for prey,
And ftrip the traveller on the way.
Thus in your annual rents they fhare,
And 'scape the noose from year to year.
Confider, ere you make the bett,
That fum might cross your taylor's debt.
When you the pilfering rattle shake,
Is not your honour, too, at ftake?
Muft 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
To have your butcher's writ withdrawn?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 now, to gaols confin❜d,
Show equal poverty of mind.
Some, who the fpoil 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 fubfift.
You'll find at laft this maxim true,
Fools are the game which knaves purfue.
The foreft (a whole century's fhade)
Must be one wafteful ruin made:
No mercy 's fhewn to age or kind;
The general maffacre is fign'd.
The park, too, fhares the dreadful fate, grow louder at the gate.
Stern clowns, obedient to the 'fquire,
(What will not barbarous hands for hire?)
With brawny arms repeat the ftroke;
Fall'n are the elm and reverend oak.
Through the long wood loud axes found,
And Echo groans with every wound.
To fee the defolation fpread,
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 inveterate hate I bear,
Who fpoil the verdure of the year;
The caterpillar I deteft,
The blooming Spring's voracious peft;
The locuft, too, whofe ravenous band
Spreads fudden famine o'er the land.
But what are thefe? the dice's throw
At once hath laid a foreft low.
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 antient glories waste.
All this (he cries) is Fortune's doing :
'Tis thus the 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 past,
O'erheard the vile afperfion caft.
Why, Pan, (fays fhe) what's all this rant? 'Tis every 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 pursue,
I mind the least what gamesters do.
There may (if computation's just)
One now and then my conduct trust.
I blame the foel, 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 crror held in schools,
That Fortune always favours fools.
In play it never bears difpute;
That doctrine these fell'd oaks confute.
Then why to me fuch rancour fhow?
'Tis Folly, Pan, that is thy foe.
By me his late estate he won,
But he by Folly was undone."
PLUTUS, CUPID, AND TIME.
Fall the burthens man must bear,
Time feems most galling and fevere:
Beneath this grievous load opprefs'd,
We daily meet some friend diftress'd.
"What can one do? I rofe at nine;
Tis full fix hours before we dine:
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