What pity a female whom nature assign'd, Such a portion of beauty in person and mind, Whose softness and wit might have temper'd thro' life, The sweetest ingredients we seek in a wife, Should absorb'd in one crime make a hell of that breast, Where dove-like benignity once form'd her nest, For sure if all storms were together combin'd, Of hail, rain, and tempest, steel, thunder, and wind, The light'ning's red glare, and the volcano laming, Will but shadow the passions of woman when gaming, Unmask'd, and unsex'd she presents to our view, The image of vice in her own native hue, At the fury before us in horror we gaze, And ask where the woman is fled in amaze? Whence sprung this dread Demon ye sages tell, Was she born upon earth, or transported from hell, What plagues and what pestilence met in their rambling, To form this detestable passion for gambling, Society's Upas that withers the ground, And poisons the blossoms of virtue around, Destroying and blasting all promise of worth, Like the curse of the locusts "that ravaged the earth."
When Avarice with Misery alone in his cot, Had endur'd many years an old bachelor's lot, He sought from this partner to make a division, By seeking himself, for a change of condition, Concluding like many old men, that a wife, Would banish grim Misery his cottage for life, And the better this end so desir'd to obtain, He fix'd on a damsel, young, splendid, and vain, Her name Prodigality--not over nice, The lady lov'd Avarice alone for his vice, And reckon'd the pleasure of emptying his coffer, Would atone for all other defects in the offer, They marry and fly at the lady's suggestion, A very long way from the cot of discretion, 860 For Extravagance sold them a villa and park, Which was stock'd by Expence with all wares like an ark, Yet the bridegroom astonish'd beheld with great pain, That Mis'ry was still the first man in their train, He stalk'd o'er their garden--sat down at their table, He perch'd on the coach, and he groan'd in the stable; And the tongue of the lady tho' flippant and strong, Could not keep his keen face from her dressing-room long, Nay e'en when her first blooming daughter was born, Old Misery stood sponsor in spite of her scorn, And while she his rude interference was blaming, With mighty sang froid he pronounc'd the babe "_Gaming_." Prodigality sought for a nurse at her leisure, And consign'd the fair imp to be dandled by pleasure, Hence some have mistaken this child for another, Amusement--no kin, but a mere foster brother. As the young one grew up she full early display'd, Her sire's inclination for scraping in trade, Was wond'rous alert at a close calculation, And scann'd the whole science of deep computation, When embu'd with her father's all grasping desires, The rashness of daring her mother inspires, And bids her ne'er hesitate roundly to send, A bold speculation in search of her end, 884 Thus covetous meanness combines with profusion, To spread o'er her actions the veil of delusion; While Misery attends her wherever she goes, With hosts of bad passions, and myriads of woes, The foremost I ween is that canker-worm Care, And the last that black fiend which proceeds from despair, Life knows not one torment that gnaws like the first, And the last of all _deaths_, is the death most accurst. I hope you'll excuse this long fabling digression, As a thing very common in bards by profession, And to tell you the truth having been somewhat bit, I find I have gain'd a new edge to my wit, Yes! thanks to O'Baffin, his friendship's unriddled, And her Ladyship's simper, with "Blunderhead's diddled." But 'tis well I'm no worse and the wisdom they taught me, Experience alone I'm afraid could have bought me, For I foolishly slighted Sir J--n G--ff--d's hint, Tho' I knew his heart sterling as gold from the mint; I wish my good Col'nel aware of this Major, Would take home his wife in the country to cage her, For this Cormorant's eyes while they glanc'd on my purse, Mark'd the Col'nel I doubt for a robb'ry far worse, Ah mother! dear mother! I now can perceive it, The world is far worse than I once could believe it, When we mountaineers from the Peak make these sallies, We meet with strange cattle in civiliz'd vallies, And our good education I honestly own, But fits us to mix with each other alone, Our naiveté, simplicity, openness, truth, The romantic attachments of warm-hearted youth, In the world's chilling atmosphere meet with such shocks, We had better ne'er roam from our own native rocks, But at present away with these moral excursions, And return we again to the list of diversions. 916