He much rejoiced, and thought his fortune made;
Yet felt aspiring pleasure at the sight,
And for increase, increasing appetite;
Desire of profit idle habits check’d
(For Fulham’s virtue was to be correct);
He and his Conscience had their compact made —
“Urge me with truth, and you will soon persuade;
But not,” he cried, “for mere ideal things
Give me to feel those terror-breeding stings.” 
   “Let not such thoughts,” she said, “your mind confound;
Trifles may wake me, but they never wound;
In them indeed there is a wrong and right,
But you will find me pliant and polite;
Not like a Conscience of the dotard kind,
Awake to dreams, to dire offences blind: 
Let all within be pure, in all beside
Be your own master, governor, and guide;
Alive to danger, in temptation strong,
And I shall sleep our whole existence long.” 
   “Sweet be thy sleep,” said Fulham; “strong must be
The tempting ill that gains access to me: 
Never will I to evil deed consent;
Or, if surprised, oh! how will I repent! 
Should gain be doubtful, soon would I restore
The dangerous good, or give it to the poor;
Repose for them my growing wealth shall buy,
Or build—­who knows?—­an hospital like Guy. 
Yet why such means to soothe the smart within,
While firmly purposed to renounce the sin?”
   Thus our young Trader and his Conscience dwelt
In mutual love, and great the joy they felt;
But yet in small concerns, in trivial things,
“She was,” he said, “too ready with the stings;”
And he too apt, in search of growing gains,
To lose the fear of penalties and pains: 
Yet these were trifling bickerings, petty jars,
Domestic strifes, preliminary wars;
He ventured little, little she express’d
Of indignation, and they both had rest. 
   Thus was he fix d to walk the worthy way,
When profit urged him to a bold essay:  —
A time was that when all at pleasure gamed
In lottery chances, yet a law unblamed: 
This Fulham tried; who would to him advance
A pound or crown, he gave in turn a chance
For weighty prize—­and should they nothing share,
They had their crown or pound in Fulham’s ware;
Thus the old stores within the shop were sold
For that which none refuses, new or old. 
   Was this unjust? yet Conscience could not rest,
But made a mighty struggle in the breast,
And gave th’ aspiring man an early proof
That should they war he would have work enough: 
“Suppose,” said she, “your vended numbers rise
The same with those which gain each real prize,
(Such your proposal), can you ruin shun?” —
“A hundred thousand,” he replied, “to one.” 
“Still it may happen.”—­“I the sum must pay.” 
“You know you cannot.”—­“I can run away.” 
“That is dishonest.”—­“Nay, but you must wink
At a chance hit:  it cannot be, I think. 
Upon my conduct as a whole decide,
Such trifling errors let my virtues hide.