"Who, like a pedlar with his pack, "Carries his riches on his back?
"Soon shall this blockhead sink my rents,
"And alienate my tenements,
"Which long have stood in good repair,
"Nor sunk nor rose from heir to heir;
"Still the same rent without advance
"Since the Black Prince first conquer'd France:
"But now, alas! all must be lost,
"And all my prudent projects crost.
"Brave honest race! is it thus then
"We dwindle into gentlemen?
"But I'll prevent this foul disgrace;
"This butterfly from hence I'll chase."
He saddles Ball without delay,
To London town directs his way;
There at the Heralds' office he
Took out his coat and paid his fee,
And had it cheap, as wits agree:
A lion rampant, stout and able,
Argent the field, the border sable;
The gay escutcheon look'd as fine
As any new-daub'd country sign.
Thus having done what he decreed,
Home he returns with all his speed:
"Here, son," said he, "since you will be
"A gentleman in spite of me;
"Here, Sir, this gorgeous bauble take,
"How well it will become a rake!
"Be what you seem: this is your share;
"But honest Numps shall be my heir;
"To him I'll leave my whole estate,
"Lest my brave race degenerate."
WHEN saints were cheap in good Nol's reign,
As sinners now in Drury-Lane,
Wrapp'd up in mysteries profound,
A saint perceiv'd his head turn round:
Whether the sweet and sav'ry wind,
That should have been discharg'd behind,
For want of vent had upward fled,
And seiz'd the fortress of his head,
Ye sage Philosophers! debate;
I solve no problems intricate.
That he was mad to me is clear,
Else why should he, whose nicer ear
Could never bear church music here,
Dream that he heard the bliss'd above
Chanting in hymns of joy and love?
Organs themselves, which were of yore
The music of the scarlet whore,
Are now with transport heard. In fine,
Ravish'd with harmony divine,
All earthly blessings he defies,
The guest and fav'rite of the skies.
At last his too officious friends
The doctor call, and he attends;
The patient cur'd demands his fee.
"Curse on thy farting pills and thee,"
Reply'd the saint: "ah! to my cost
"I'm cur'd; but where's the heav'n I lost?
"Go, vile deceiver, get thee hence,
"Who'd barter Paradise for sense?"
Ev'n so bemus'd, (that is, possess'd)
With raptures fir'd, and more than bless'd,
In pompous epic, tow'ring odds,
I strut with heroes, feast with Gods;
Enjoy by turns the tuneful quire,
For me they touch each golden lyre.
Happy delusion! kind deceit!
Till you, my friend, reveal the cheat;
Your eye severe traces each fault,
Each swelling word, each tinsel thought.
Cur'd of my frenzy, I despise
Such trifles, stripp'd of their disguise,
Convinc'd, and miserably wise.
XIV. THE SWEET-SCENTED MISER.
TELL me, my noble gen'rous friend,
With what design, and to what end,
Do greedy fools heap up with care
That pelf which they want heart to share?
What other pleasure can they know
But to enjoy or to bestow?
Acts of benevolence and love
Give us a taste of heav'n above;
We imitate th' immortal pow'rs,
Whose sunshine and whose kindly show'rs
Refresh the poor and barren ground,
And plant a paradise around;
But this mean sneaking avarice
Is a collection of all vice.
Where this foul weed but taints the place,
Nor virtue grows, nor worth, nor grace;
The soul a desert waste remains,
And ghastly desolation reigns;
But where will these grave mortals tend?
Pardon my zeal, dear courteous friend!
The province of my humbler vein
Is not to preach, but entertain.
Gripe, from the cradle to the grave,
Was good for nothing but to save;
Mammon his God, to him alone
He bow'd, and his short creed was known:
On his thumb-nail it might be wrote,
"A penny sav'd's a penny got."
This rich poor man was jogging down,
Once on a time, from London town;
With him his son, a handy lad,
To dress his daddy---or his pad;
Among his dealers he had been,
And all their ready cash swept clean.
Gripe, to save charges on the road,
At each good house cramm'd in a load,
With boil'd and roast his belly fill'd,
And greedily each tankard swill'd:
How savoury, how sweet the meat,
How good the drink, when others treat!
Now on the road Gripe trots behind,
For weighty reasons, as you'll find;
The boy soon long'd to take a whet,
His horse at each sign made a set,
And he spurr'd on with great regret :
This the old man observ'd with pain,
"Ah! son," said he, "the way to gain
"Wealth (our chief good) is to abstain;
"Check each expensive appetite,
"And make the most of ev'ry mite:
"Consider well, my child! oh, think
"What numbers are undone by drink!
"Hopeful young men, who might be great,
"Die well, and leave a large estate,
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