Discourse is shared with friends or found at home. 
   But Cards with Books are incidental things;
We’ve nights devoted to these queens and kings: 
Then if we choose the social game, we may;
Now ’tis a duty, and we’re bound to play;
Nor ever meeting of the social kind
Was more engaging, yet had less of mind. 
   Our eager parties, when the lunar light
Throws its full radiance on the festive night,
Of either sex, with punctual hurry come,
And fill, with one accord, an ample room;
Pleased, the fresh packs on cloth of green they see,
And seizing, handle with preluding glee;
They draw, they sit, they shuffle, cut, and deal;
Like friends assembled, but like foes to feel: 
But yet not all,—­a happier few have joys
Of mere amusement, and their cards are toys;
No skill nor art, nor fretful hopes have they,
But while their friends are gaming, laugh and play. 
   Others there are, the veterans of the game,
Who owe their pleasure to their envied fame;
Through many a year with hard-contested strife,
Have they attain’d this glory of their life: 
Such is that ancient burgess, whom in vain
Would gout and fever on his couch detain;
And that large lady, who resolves to come,
Though a first fit has warn’d her of her doom! 
These are as oracles:  in every cause
They settle doubts, and their decrees are laws;
But all are troubled, when, with dubious look,
Diana questions what Apollo spoke. 
   Here avarice first, the keen desire of gain,
Rules in each heart, and works in every brain: 
Alike the veteran-dames and virgins feel,
Nor care what graybeards or what striplings deal;
Sex, age, and station, vanish from their view,
And gold, their sov’reign good, the mingled crowd pursue. 
   Hence they are jealous, and as rivals, keep
A watchful eye on the beloved heap;
Meantime discretion bids the tongue be still,
And mild good-humour strives with strong ill-will
Till prudence fails; when, all impatient grown,
They make their grief by their suspicions known,
   “Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play,
He’d rave to see you throw your cards away;
Not that I care a button—­not a pin
For what I lose; but we had cards to win: 
A saint in heaven would grieve to see such hand
Cut up by one who will not understand.” 
   “Complain of me! and so you might indeed
If I had ventured on that foolish lead,
That fatal heart—­but I forgot your play —
Some folk have ever thrown their hearts away.” 
   “Yes, and their diamonds; I have heard of one
Who made a beggar of an only son.” 
   “Better a beggar, than to see him tied
To art and spite, to insolence and pride.” 
   “Sir, were I you, I’d strive to be polite,
Against my nature, for a single night.” 
   “So did you strive, and, madam! with success;
I knew no being we could censure less!”
   Is this too much?  Alas! my