Avarice.
See Miser. Money.
Hence almost ev’ry Crime, nor do we find,
That any Passion of the human Mind,
So oft has plung’d the Sword, or drench’d the Bowl,
As Avarice–that Tyrant of the Soul.
For he that will be rich, brooks no Delay,
But drives o’er all, and takes the shortest Way:
What Law, or Fear, or Shame can e’er restrain
The greedy Wretch in full Pursuit of Gain?–
Do but get Money, that’s a needful Task,
Which Way you got it none will ever ask.–
Curs’d Gold! how high will daring Mortals rise,
In ev’ry Guilt, to reach the glitt’ring Prize?–
He that buys Harps, and throws his Wealth away
On Pipes, yet never does intend to play:
He that buys Awls and Lasts, yet doth not know,
And ne’er designs to try, to make a Shoe:
Or Ships and Oars, yet is averse to Trade,
All, and there’s Reason for’t, would count him mad.
And what’s He better, who still strives for more,
Still heaps up Wealth, yet dares not use the Store,
But fears to touch it as ’twere sacred Ore?–
Whom dost thou save it for? thy drunken Heir?
Or lest thy self should want it dost thou spare?
Old Wretch, how little would thy Wealth be less,
Should’st thou eat better Food, or wear a cleaner Dress?–
The greedy avaritious Wretch is found
Always in Want:–but Thou thy Wishes bound.–
The Love of Gold by Gain is still increas’d:
And He, who has it not, desires, it least.–
Gold, ’tis for thee a Life of Care we know,
For thee, untimely, to the Grave we go.
Vice is encourag’d and supply’d by thee,
And thou’rt the Source of human Misery.–
Care still attends increasing Store,
And endless Appetite for more.–
What’s Wealth to me, if you its Use deny,
Tho’ large my Heaps, a wretched Beggar I.
Riches are Torments, if the shining Ore
We dare not touch, but only guard the Store.
So Tantalus of Thirst and Hunger dies,
With Food and Water just before his Eyes.
–The craving Mind is always poor.
The Man is mad, and should a Keeper have,
Who freights a Ship, and ventures on the Seas,
With one frail interposing Plank to save
From certain Death, roll’d on by ev’ry Wave:
Yet Money makes him all this Toil embrace;
Money with Titles stampt, and a dull Monarch’s Face.
When gath’ring Clouds o’ershadow all the Skies,
And shoot quick Lightnings,–Weigh, my Boys, he cries,
A Summer’s Thunder, soon it will be past:–
Yet, hardy Fool! this Night may prove thy last:
When Thou (thy Ship o’erwhelm’d with Waves) shalt be
Forc’d to plunge naked in the raging Sea.
Thy Teeth fast clos’d, a Purse full of dear Gold,
The last Remains of all thy Stores shall hold.–
Thy greedy Wishes bound, enjoy thy Store,
And help thy Friends, necessitous, and poor.–
If what you drink should make your Thirst increase,
Surely you’d tell some Doctor your Disease,
And seek for Cure.–Now your abundant Store
But only makes you covet Wealth the more:
And dare you rest content, and not apply
To Somebody, to find a Remedy?
Suppose you had a Wound, and one had show’d
A Root, or Herb, which try’d had done no Good:
Would you not cease to follow his Advice?–
Now, you have heard, that he must needs be wise
To whom the Gods give Riches: yet you find
The Wealth you have, has not improv’d your Mind:
And will you still believe it, when you know
By sad Experience that it is not so?
Cou’d Gold with godlike Prudence Minds inspire,
Or lessen anxious Fear and fond Desire,
Then you should blush, if all the World could shew
A Man more covetous of Wealth than you.–
However large the golden Store,
There’s always Something wanting more.–
Thus Tantalus by his own Wish accurst,
Midst Fruits for Hunger faints, midst Streams for Thirst:
The Miser’s Emblem! who of all possess’d,
Yet fears to taste, in Blessings most unbless’d.–
Wealth must obey, or it will rule the Mind.–
Authors.
See Style.
‘Twas heretofore a Credit here at Rome,
To mind one’s Business, and abide at Home:
To help one’s Client, and promote his Cause,
Inform his Ignorance, and teach the Laws:
To make good Debts, and drive a gainful Trade,
And know what Int’rest may be justly paid:
Instruct the Young, and hear the Old debate,
What will encrease, what ruin an Estate.
This Humour’s chang’d, now reigns a new Delight,
All must be Authors now, and All must write.–
Would’st Thou compose some lasting Piece?–be wise,
Amend, correct again, again revise:
Seek not th’unthinking Many to delight,
But for a few of the best Judges write.–
Autumn.
Then from the burden’d Elms the generous Vine
Descends, and Presses overflow with Wine:
Then Corn is sown, whilst Autumn’s Heats remain
To loose the Clods, and fertilize the Grain.–
‘Twas now the Time, when equal Jove on high
Had hung the golden Balance of the Sky:
But ah! not long such just Proportions last,
The righteous Season soon was chang’d and past:
And Spring’s Encroachment on the short’ning Shade,
Was fully to the wintry Nights repaid.–
Bacchanals.
Thro’ the mid Cities, and the madding Crowds,
Furious she urges on; and cries aloud,
Evo
(Henry Baker)
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