'Tis said that wealth has various uses.
It has--we'll see what it produces.

When Prejudice on high is seated,
The soundest judgment may be cheated;
Hood-wink'd, she seldom finds her road,
While prejudice keeps her abode;
Nor on her seat can she appear
While the usurper keeps the chair;
For everlastingly we find
The stronger will the weaker bind.

A powerful influence, we know,
Possesses every soul below.
Not apt to see--to dullness prone,
With Reason's eyes, but with our own.

As we can't tell where bliss may lie,
In property we always try;
But often as wealth meets reception
So we are sure to meet deception.
The higher class have their full share;
The more of wealth, the more of care.

Perhaps true bliss in ease may lie,
Then stop a moment, friend, we'll try.
Nature's design we'll not invade,
Man surely was for action made;
If out of use his hands, his head,
His feet, the man's much like the dead.
A breathing something here we view,
Lost to himself and others too:
For how can he enjoy the day
Who stupid slumbers life away;
'Gainst sluggish time makes heavy moan,
Whereas the fault is all his own?
If he round four-and-twenty hours
Shall just do nothing, pleasure sours.

If happiness we seek below,
The mind no vacancy must know.
Head, hands, and feet, to action prone
For others good, or else our own;
Studying, reading, conversation;
Variety comes in rotation.
Labour alternately, and rest,
This practice will be found the best;
A practice which we hold most true,
In poverty and riches too.

Have you no hobby-horse to stride?
'I have'--then, Sir, get up and ride.
The prettiest bauble upon earth;
But never ride him out of breath.
Pleasure pursued in haste is vain,
We quickly run it down to pain.
If one hand itches, then the other
Will scratch most eagerly his brother;
This a delightful joy imparts,
But he may scratch it till it smarts.
Keep your best favorite always nice,
Nor let him daub his feet in vice.

These rules attended to, you may
Sleep through the night, sing through the day.
No matter though your wealth runs scant,
Prudence will never let you want.
Suppose no affluence you share,
You're rid at once of all the care;
But if with money you'd be bless'd,
'Twill blot your note, and break your rest.

John Parks liv'd at--I'll not tell you;
We'll grace his name with E. S. Q.
Because he held, and held them clear,
About six hundred pounds a year.
But, if his house-keeping we view,
It seldom cost much more than two.

Not fond to hoard wealth, nor to waste,
His stile was suited to his taste.
His guinea often you might see
Swelling the score of charity.

Then, as to love, he'd long lost sight on't
Or, rather, he ne'er knew a doit on't;
Nor ever made one woman wife,
Nor talk'd of Cupid in his life.
One house-keeper he had, 'tis true,
But she could neither say nor do;
And yet before the setting sun
Did all the work he wanted done;
Not mighty apt to go astray;
Reflection had no room to play.
If you her bed watch'd round the year,
You'd never say--'two folks lay there.'

An idle boy he'd always use
To polish up the knives and shoes.
If you're inclin'd to keep a spark,
'Tis ten to one he'll hit this mark.

The morning came; he rose at ten;
He ate his breakfast; and--what then?
Quite tir'd with sitting, standing, soon,
A dreadful chasm held 'till noon.

A stable had, where lumber's put;
For he ne'er rode or walk'd on foot.
Nor did he need a horse to chuse,
Who never learnt himself to use.
Supineness through his life attends
He wanted neither foes nor friends.

The dinner came; then at the close
He shut his eyes to court a doze.
And whether bad, or whether good,
He ate as much as e'er he cou'd.
But disappointment wishes sap,
He could not eas'ly take a nap;
Like tops some exercise must keep,
Forc'd into action e'er they sleep.
Rising and sitting was his doom;
Trying all chairs within the room;
But, as he could not rest attain,
He tried them o'er and o'er again.

His study, we affirm, consisted
Of the best authors that existed:
Bible and Prayer-book--rather dusty,
Stow'd in a dark room--rather musty;
Because the circulating air
Was seldom suffer'd to come there.
What though their number were but two;
He did not quickly read them through.

His application caus'd no sorrow;
He was not apt to lend or borrow.
Then as the year roll'd round its course,
An Almanack would add its force.

When he must write instead of speak,
Pen, ink, and wafers were to seek;
And though he could not find them soon,
Whene'er he did were out of tune.
His ink was thick, his paper dash'd,
His pen was blunted, wafers smash'd;
Which seem'd to say, through long abuse,
'They could not then come into use.'
And he was never so absurd
But would desist, and take their word,
And sealing-wax he would forbear;
'Twas twice the trouble wafers are.

Now, having nothing else to do,
A dish of tea is brought to view.
And where's the female, or the male,
That ever shunn'd the sweet regale?
A pleasure that relieves the cares
By opening ether men's affairs;
Chief entertainment of the nation;
The slaughter-house of reputation,
Which never more to grow is seen
Than heads which pass the guillotine,
The history of a month, we see,
Compriz'd within a dish of tea.
Who would not even love the scent
Of liquor so intelligent?
The solid part, too, of our flutter,
Seems to the eye but bread-and-butter;
But really is, when handed round,
A plate of curious knowledge found.

Waiting for care to run away,
We've lost three quarters of a day.
Nor could, when supper time came on,
Eat much--his appetite was gone.

The evening came; time hung a load:
He doz'd a bit while Sarah sew'd.
As every greater noise was check'd,
The very small would have effect.
While she's the thread through linen pulling,
The sound had something in it lulling;
To which we add, by way of rhime,
Her body, most exact, beat time.

This vacancy of life he led--
He rose, ate, slept, and went to bed;
He'd nought to find, he 'd nought to seek;
Full seven long days made every week.

His body, by sheer sloth oppress'd,
Was unprepar'd for food or rest;
His mind, debilitated grown,
For want of use had lost its tone.

Thus happiness he could not find,
Which quickly brought distress of mind.
Depriv'd of bliss, he envy'd long
The man who ate, slept, laugh'd, or sung.
If humble life had been his lot,
Compell'd to act, he'd pleasure got.
Thus scrutinizing, it appears
Wealth was the cause of all his cares.

THE SECOND PART

Hold up the glass, and you'll confess
The Cobler comes in real dress.

But two doors off, full in the street,
A Cobler held a bulk compleat;
Who food and pleasure copious took,
And rather shew'd a jovial look.
Not only eat, but sometimes drank;
Nor could you see his belly lank.
T'improve his person took some care,
For once a week he comb'd his hair;
His white shirt sleeves his arms adorning,
The whitest were on Monday morning;
His waistcoat, Phœnix like, we note,
Ascended from his last old coat;
And fit so well you scarce could match it:
The sleeves and skirts laid by to patch it.

His leather apron hid with ease
The holes upon his breeches knees,
Fasten'd behind as firm as any,
With a large buckle, price a penny.
Button and loop-hole, near his heart,
Clubb'd to support the upper part:
These partners held a great contest,
Which longest should possess the breast;
Agreed like husband and like wife,
Who gall each other during life.
But let the Muse in sorrow tell;
The button, in the contest, fell:
The loop, triumphant, kept the field--
Beheld the conquer'd button yield!
But, when she found her help-mate dead,
The mournful flap hung down its head.

Great wits are seldom at a loss;
The Cobler cut a shred across
His apron; hung it, without clatter,
About his neck like knight o' th' Garter;
But wanting George to grace the end on't,
He let the leather flap hang pendant.

Sure as the sun went down and brought night,
He chang'd his stockings once a fortnight.
The Muse professes not to know
Whether he garters wore or no;
Only observes a curious eye
Might see his hose in wrinkles lie
Except till Sunday he should wait,
Then they were tolerably strait.

Turning two ways the observer sees
Two buckles grace his breeches knees;
But here we modestly declare
The two did not exactly pair:
But this by no means signifies,
As none could two ways turn his eyes.
We'll not say which is worst or best,
But only say they're East and West.

The Cobler we've describ'd compleat,
'Till we've descended to his feet.
Where his two shoes compleatly shewn
He others soled before his own.

Our hero thus describ'd, you know,
Could not appear a perfect beau.
For all gay colours he must lack;
We'll only say--a beau in black:
For when a bulk abounds with wax
All neighbouring objects it attacks;
And then, Camelion like, is known
To change their colours to its own.

To tempt fresh customers that way
Would all his splendid powers display:
New-mended shoes, arrang'd most nice
On his bulk top, mark'd with the price.
Who would not then be of opinion
He sov'reign was of this dominion.
What bulky care could enter free
Into his shop, six feet by three.
His powers most ably could, no doubt,
With ease keep all intruders out.
Fix'd on his throne, with pride compleat,
Whoever spoke stood in the street;
And, though the weather made resistance,
Were forc'd to keep an awful distance.

He kept true time as any cock;
Enter'd his bulk at five o'clock;
And like a cock whose spirits flow,
As soon as up began to crow.
With various notes his voice adorning,
His treble usher'd in the morning.

The neighbours knew the time to rise,
Though perfect darkness veil'd the skies.
His shining candle had the power
Through the broad chinks to tell the hour;
And though no day-break spread the skies,
Told drowsy people when to rise.

'Wake, husband, let not sleep o'erpower,
The Cobler's been at work this hour.'
'Pho, dame, don't make so much ado,
I know he's up as well as you.'

A master was of self and song;
He dealt in music all day long;
And entertain'd the world with glee;
' I love my Billy, Billy me.
Ye gentle gales that fan the air,
Then who can with my love compare?
We never will for riches quarrel,
We'll find the bottom of the barrel.'

You'd see the last new song of all
Nail'd with four tacks against the wall.
Nay, the whole length of Chevy Chase
Found in his little bulk a place.

In joyous temper all the day
Smil'd, work'd, and sung his cares away;
And never, as we understand,
Did once complain time hung on hand;
But, as with hasty wing he flew,
With hasty step he would pursue.
Nay, at the Crown was heard to say,
'Sol and his ale went fast away.'

It shall not to the Muse belong
To give a list of every song;
But he'd as many, people say,
As would have fill'd up many a day;
All which, it freely is confess'd,
Will clearly prove a mind at rest.
And whereso'er content we scan,
The owner is a happy man.

THE THIRD PART

One hundred guineas, more or less,
Is just the price of happiness.

In all pursuits alloy we find,
For care will never lag behind.
Peace, which we should ourselves command,
Lies often in another hand.
Like Hamman mourn in every state,
'A Mordecai sits in the gate;'
Which over envious passions reign,
Prevents our joy but not our pain.

The Squire's oblig'd to listen long,
Five hours each morning to his song;
For when four sides by turns shall ache,
No wonder then he's kept awake.
And no retreat or sleep being near,
He's bound to lie awake and hear.

'How am I rak'd and gall'd within,
To hear this wretched Cobler's din;
'Twould even make a saint repine;
He keeps his own rest, and breaks mine.
All the great evils I endure
The Cobler gives, but none will cure.
If I a remedy could get,
The great expence I'd not regret.'

In all our errors we ne'er lack
To throw them on another's back.
The merry Cobler's blam'd alone;
Whereas the fault was all his own.
For he whose frame is tun'd the best,
Whose pliant nature calls for rest,
Will fall asleep though bells should ring,
Or even fifty Coblers sing.

This observation, too, we trace;
Some little envy's in the case;
For since the setting of the sun
The Squire lost what the Cobler won.
And where's the man can bear to see
His neighbour prosper more than he?
In Mr. Parks we see beside
Working a small degree of pride:
'Shall a base Cobler give a dose
To spoil a Gentleman's repose?
Rise when he will to sing and knock,
And then force me to count the clock?
It hurts me more that he's elate,
Than sever'd limb from my estate.
Shall I these sleepless hours endure,
And not attempt to find a cure?
His bolder notes are heard a mile hence;
A remedy that tongue shall silence.'

One hundred guineas from his store,
As bright as e'er was golden ore,
The squire selected. They'd no flaw,
The prettiest things you ever saw;
The potentest charm that e'er engages;
They move all sexes and all ages.
Men may have power, and women more;
But guineas beat them o'er and o'er.
For what on earth will they not find
Excepting health and peace of mind?
They'll make an evidence with ease;
Say, or unsay, whate'er you please;
Have ample power t'explain the laws,
And let e'en falsehood gain a cause.
Nay, make a conscientious jew
Say any thing except the true.
The meek divines well understand them;
They cramp the conscience or expand them.
The Priest that doctrine will defend
Which all religions comprehend.
They'll make the tend'rest lovers part,
And give a hand without a heart:
Or in a twinkling disappear,
And change to any form that's near.
Become a bonnet lac'd, for Phil,
For which she'll grant you what you will.
They'll give a sprucer gait; what's more
Will swell the carcase just before;
Give self-importance too, and tend
To make a man o'er-look a friend;
When rhetoricians powers are spent,
They're the concluding argument.

A canvas bag the Squire procures
To hold these hundred bright allures,
In paper wrapt to swell the size,
That sooner it might catch the eyes;
And while the Cobler did not fail
To leave his bulk in quest of ale,
The squire, in careless mood, passed by,
Threw in the whole as none could spy.

That man, you'd think, the worst of ninnies,
Who thus disposes of his guineas.
Yet well that money may be spent
Which buys the very thing we meant.
Who would not send it to the deep,
If it could bring up ease and sleep?

The Cobler soon return'd again
To his diminutive domain.
'Hey day!' he whisper'd in surprize,
'Fresh work I see before me lies.
What simpleton these shoes could bring,
Not worth the paper or the string?
I warrant he who brought them here
Durst not, through pride, let them appear.'
But, when the flimsy covering's rent
Himself was all astonishment,
His jovial spirits instant fled,
And left him with a thoughtful head,

He rac'd his brains in pond'ring o'er.
From whence could come this golden store.
His mental powers were all on fire;
Could no more sleep than could the Squire.
His mind kept changing every hour,
And soon became a little sour.
Corroding cares came on apace;
The wrinkles deepen'd in his face.
His eyes upon the pavement pore;
Was seven years older than before;
His mouth was rather narrow'd in,
And sunk almost an inch his chin;
His peace was gone, his trouble not;
His joy, and all his songs forgot.
And Chevy Chace, which grac'd his shed,
Was never after sung or said.