P. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name: own, Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone. Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend! And see what comfort it affords our end. In the worst inn's worst room, with mat halfhung, The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, 5 See note 6 p. 120. 6 The talented and dissolute George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who, having squandered his immense wealth, died at the house of one of his tenants in Yorkshire, in the misery here described. Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, Of mimic statesmen and their merry king. Resolve me, reason, which of these is worse, 7 The infamous Countess of Shrewsbury, whose lord the Duke of Buckingham killed in a duel on her account, and who is reported to have held the Duke's horses, disguised as a page, during the combat. 8 Sir John Cutler, notorious for his miserly habits. VOL. II. 9 Cutler and Brutus dying both exclaim, Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies, A plain good man, and Balaam was his name. His word would pass for more than he was worth; sure, His givings rare, save farthings to the poor. The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, And long'd to tempt him like good Job of old; But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Rous'd by the prince of air, the whirlwinds sweep The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes. "Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word; And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board. Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away: He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. 66 Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought: "I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church I'll now go twiceAnd am so clear too of all other vice." The tempter saw his time; the work he plied; Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, Till all the demon makes his full descent In one abundant shower of cent per cent, Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, Then dubs director, and secures his soul. Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a blessing now was wit, And God's good providence a lucky hit. Things change their titles as our manners turn, His counting-house employ'd the Sunday morn: Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life), But duly sent his family and wife. There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide My good old lady catch'd a cold and died. A nymph of quality admires our knight; He marries, bows at court, and grows polite; Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air: First for his son a gay commission buys, Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies: His daughter flaunts a viscount's tawdry wife; |