The cards are dealt, the bet is made,
  And the wide park hath lost its shade.
90
  Thus is my kingdom’s pride defaced,
  And all its ancient glories waste. 
  All this,’ he cries, ’is Fortune’s doing: 
  ’Tis thus she meditates my ruin. 
  By Fortune, that false, fickle jade,
  More havoc in one hour is made,
  Than all the hungry insect race,
  Combined, can in an age deface.’ 
     Fortune, by chance, who near him pass’d,
  O’erheard the vile aspersion cast.
100
     ‘Why, Pan,’ says she, ’what’s all this rant? 
  ’Tis every country-bubble’s cant;
  Am I the patroness of vice? 
  Is’t I who cog or palm the dice? 
  Did I the shuffling art reveal, 105
  To mark the cards, or range the deal? 
  In all the employments men pursue,
  I mind the least what gamesters do. 
  There may (if computation’s just)
  One now and then my conduct trust: 
110
  I blame the fool, for what can I,
  When ninety-nine my power defy? 
  These trust alone their fingers’ ends,
  And not one stake on me depends. 
  Whene’er the gaming board is set,
  Two classes of mankind are met: 
  But if we count the greedy race,
  The knaves fill up the greater space. 
  ’Tis a gross error, held in schools,
  That Fortune always favours fools.
120
  In play it never bears dispute;
  That doctrine these felled oaks confute. 
  Then why to me such rancour show? 
  ’Tis folly, Pan, that is thy foe. 
  By me his late estate he won,
  But he by folly was undone.’

* * * * *

  FABLE XIII.

  PLUTUS, CUPID, AND TIME.

  Of all the burdens man must bear,
  Time seems most galling and severe: 
  Beneath this grievous load oppressed,
  We daily meet some friend distressed. 
     ’What can one do?  I rose at nine. 
  ’Tis full six hours before we dine: 
  Six hours! no earthly thing to do! 
  Would I had dozed in bed till two.’ 
     A pamphlet is before him spread,
  And almost half a page is read;
10
  Tired with the study of the day,
  The fluttering sheets are tossed away. 
  He opes his snuff-box, hums an air,
  Then yawns, and stretches in his chair. 
     ’Not twenty, by the minute hand! 
  Good gods:’  says he, ’my watch must stand! 
  How muddling ’tis on books to pore! 
  I thought I’d read an hour or more,
  The morning, of all hours, I hate. 
  One can’t contrive to rise too late.’
20
     To make the minutes faster run,
  Then too his tiresome self to shun,
  To the next coffee-house he speeds,
  Takes up the news, some scraps he reads. 
  Sauntering, from chair to chair he trails;
  Now drinks his tea, now bites his nails. 
  He spies a partner of his woe;
  By chat afflictions lighter grow;
  Each other’s grievances they share,