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SECTION XVI.

OF AVARICIOUS FOOLS.

Tam deest avaro quod habet, quam quod non habet.

WHO is't that hugs his mental bane?
'Tis avarice,* believe me ;

Whose pleasure is his constant pain,

Thus may the mind deceive thee.

* The following lines from Gay's fable of the Miser and Plutus are well calculated to depict the baneful effects of gold.

Gold banish'd honour from the mind,]

And only left the name behind,

Gold sow'd the world with ev'ry ill;

Gold taught the murd'rer's sword to kill.
Thus when the villain crams his chest,
Gold is the canker of the breast;
'Tis avarice, insolence and pride,
And ev'ry shocking vice beside.

Or we may exclaim with Virgil,

Quid non mortalia pectora cogis,

Auri sacra fames.

With doting eyes he counts his store,

But ah! his mind's not cheerful!
Now coveting one hundred more,
Of theft for ever fearful.†

What others give, what others spend,
What others too are hoarding,

Alike he covets to his end,

No joys his life affording.

He never feels that heavenly thrill,
From charity soft flowing;
To mercy deaf, his selfish will,
On self alone bestowing.

It is the extraordinary feature of avarice, to toil incessantly for the attainment of that, which, when procured, never affords it the smallest gratification, for we may say with Horace;

Quærit et inventis miser abstinet, ac timet uti.

and in like manner is avarice incessantly punished for the ills which it inflicts on others, for " In nullum avarus bonus est, in se pessimus." In Dodsley's collection is a beautiful Fable of the Sparrow and the Diamond, well calculated to display the extent of this vice; and the moral of which is admirably adapted to the subject of the present Section.

For gold he lives for gold he sighs,
Yet, if disease assail him;

The wretch for want of comfort dies.*
Fearful his gold should fail him.

In life no friend, in death no tear,
Save that which flows from pleasure,

Is shed upon the miser's bier,

By those who share his treasure.

L'ENVOY OF THE POET.

Gold is by Avarice misunderstood,

In circulation all it's value's found; When kept 'tis dross, productive of no good, And, for man's peace, far better under ground.

THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.

Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,
Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.

* Abbraccia tal volta la fortuna coloro, che vuol poi affegare.

SECTION XVII.

OF THE VICE OF SLOTH IN FOOLS.

Go to the Ant, thou sluggard; consider her ways and

be wise.

I ne'er was loth,

To lash vile sloth,

Of industry the bane;*

In filthy pride,

To dirt allied,

And all its loathsome train.

To stew in bed,

With matted head,

SOLOMON.

* That being who suffers his mind to remain inert, willingly unbars the portal for the admission of every degrading vice, which imperceptibly usurps emporium over the reason, and thus subjects man to the most degrading state of vassalage: like a lulling opiate it steals over the senses, and while it seems to sooth carries with it the seeds of destruction. Therefore was it most emphatically said by the satirist:

Vitanda est improba Syren-Desidia.

Of morning breeze afraid;

With linen vile,

Still more defile,

The skin in filth array'd.

I dare maintain,

That equal pain,

From water such endure;

As when disease

Canine doth seize

The hound-which knows no cure.

Each eve Sloth cries,

Next morn I'll rise,

My business to pursue :
Yet still in sleep,

The mornings creep,

Its business left to do. †

Such is the fate,

Each morn too late,

For sloth must still betray;

† Levati per tempo e vedrai, travaglia et haverai.

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