Classic Poem

FABLE XII.

To a Young H EIR .

S OON as your father's death was known,
(As if th' estate had been their own,)
The gamesters outwardly exprest
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 compleat,
The garden's elegant and great.
How fine the park around it lies!
The timber 's of a noble size.
Then count his jewels and his plate.
Besides, 'tis no entail'd estate.
If cash run low, his lands in fee
Are or for sale or mortgage free.
Thus they, before you threw the main,
Seem'd to anticipate their gain.
Would you, when thieves are known abroad,
Bring forth your treasures in the road?
Would not the fool abett the stealth,
Who rashly 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 save your worthy gang from shame?
Unless you furnish'd daily bread,
Which way could idleness be fed?
Could these professors of deceit
Within the law no longer cheat,
They must run bolder risques for prey,
And strip the trav'ler on the way.
Thus in your annual rents they share,
And 'scape the noose from year to year.
Consider, e'er you make the bett,
That sum might cross your taylor's debt.
When you the pilf'ring rattle shake,
Is not your honour too at stake?
Must you not by mean lyes evade
To-morrow's duns from ev'ry trade?
By promises so often paid,
Is yet your taylor's bill defray'd?
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To have your butcher's writ withdrawn?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.
Look round. The wrecks of play behold,
Estates dismember'd, mortgag'd, sold!
Their owners, now to jails confin'd,
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.
You 'll find at last this maxim true,
Fools are the game which knaves pursue.

The forest (a whole cent'ry's shade)
Must be one wasteful ruin made:
No mercy's shown to age or kind,
The general massacre is sign'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 sound,
And eccho groans with ev'ry 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 passion torn,
The sport of whirling winds are born.
To snails invet'rate hate I bear,
Who spoil the verdure of the year:
The caterpillar I detest,
The blooming spring's voracious pest;
The locust too, whose rav'nous 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 bett is made,
And the wide park hath lost its shade.
Thus is my kingdom's pride defac'd,
And all its antient glories waste.
All this (he cries) is Fortune's doing,
'Tis thus she meditates my ruin:
By Fortune, that false, fickle jade,
More havock in one hour is made,
Than all the hungry insect race,
Combin'd, can in an age deface.
Fortune, by chance, who near him past,
O'erheard the vile aspersion cast.
Why, Pan , (says she,) what's all this rant?
'Tis ev'ry 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,
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 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 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.
By me his late estate he won,
But he by Folly was undone.