The Works of the English Poets

The legacies of Tadius too are flown ;
All spent, and on the self-same errand gone.
How little then to my poor fhare will fall!
Little indeed; but yet that little's all.

Nor tell me, in a dying father's tone,
Be careful still of the main chance, my fon;
Put out thy principal in trusty hands:

Live on the use; and never dip thy lands:

But yet what's left for me? What 's left, my friend!

Ask that again, and all the rest I spend.

Is not my fortunes at my own command?

Pour oil, and pour it with a plenteous hand,
Upon my fallads, boy: fhall I be fed
With fodden nettles, and a fing'd fow's head?
'Tis holiday; provide me better cheer;
'Tis holiday, and shall be round the year.
Shall I my houfhold gods and genius cheat,
To make him rich, who grudges me my meat?
That he may loll at eafe; and, pamper'd high,
When I am laid, may feed on giblet-pie?
And, when his throbbing luft extends the vein,
Have wherewithal his whores to entertain?
Shall I in homespun cloth be clad, that he
His paunch in triumph may before him fee?

Go, mifer, go; for lucre fell thy foul;

Truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to pole:

•

That men may fay, when thou art dead and gone,
See what a vast eftate he left his fon!

How

How large a family of brawny knaves,
Well fed, and fat as Cappadocian slaves!
Increase thy wealth, and double all thy store;
'Tis done: now double that, and fwell the score;
To every thousand add ten thousand more.
Then fay, Chryfippus, thou who would'st confine
Thy heap, where I fhall put an end to mine.

CON