Plays all the night, nor doubts each law to break,
Himself unknowingly has help'd to make;
Trembling and anxious, stakes his utmost groat,
Peeps o'er his cards, and looks as if he thought:
Next morn difowns the losses of the night,
Because the fool would fain be thought a bite.
Devoted thus to politics, and cards,
Nor mirth, nor wine, nor women he regards,
So far is ev'ry virtue from his heart,
That not a gen'rous vice can claim a part;
Nay, left one human paffion e'er should move
His foul to friendship, tenderness, or love,
TO FIGG and BROUGHTON he commits his breast,
To fteel it to the fashionable teft.
Thus poor in wealth, he labours to no end,
Wretched alone, in crowds without a friend;
Infenfible to all that's good or kind,
Deaf to all merit, to all beauty blind;
For love too bufy, and for wit too grave,
A harden'd, fober, proud, luxurious, knave;
By little actions ftriving to be great,
And proud to be, and to be thought a cheat.
And yet in this fo bad is his fuccefs,
That as his fame improves, his rents grow lefs;
On parchment wings his acres take their flight,
And his unpeopled groves admit the light;
With his eftate his int'reft too is done,
His honeft borough seeks a warmer sun ;
For him, now cafh and liquor flows no more,
His independent voters ceafe to roar:
And BRITAIN foon muft want the great defence
Of all his honesty, and eloquence,
But that the gen'rous youth, more anxious grown
For public liberty than for his own,
Marries fome jointur’d antiquated crone:
And boldly, when his country is at stake,
Braves the deep yawning gulph, like CURTIUS, for its fake.
Quickly again distress'd for want of coin,
He digs no longer in th' exhausted mine,
But feeks preferment, as the last resort,
Cringes each morn at levées, bows at court,
And, from the hand he hates, implores fupport:
The minifter, well pleas'd at fmall expence
To filence fo much rude impertinence,
With squeeze and whisper yields to his demands,
And on the venal lift enroll'd he ftands;
A ribband and a penfion buy the flave,
This bribes the fool about him, that the knave.
And now arriv'd at his meridian glory,
He finks apace, despis'd by Whig and Tory;
Of independence now he talks no more,
Nor fhakes the fenate with his patriot roar,
But filent votes, and, with court-trappings hung,
Eyes his own glitt'ring ftar, and holds his tongue.
In craft political a bankrupt made,
He sticks to gaming, as the furer trade;
Turns downright sharper, lives by fucking blood,
And grows, in fhort, the very thing he wou'd:
Hunts out young heirs, who have their fortunes spent,
And lends them ready cash at cent per cent,
Lays wagers on his own, and others lives,
Fights uncles, fathers, grandmothers, and wives,
Till death at length, indignant to be made
The daily fubject of his sport and trade,
Veils with his fable hand the wretch's eyes,
And, groaning for the betts he lofes by't, he dies.
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