Say, for such worth are other worlds prepared Or are they both in this their own reward? A knotty point! to which we now proceed. But you are tired--I'll tell a tale--
_P_. Where London's column,[44] pointing at the skies Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; 340 There dwelt a citizen of sober fame, A plain good man, and Balaam was his name; Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth; His word would pass for more than he was worth. One solid dish his week-day meal affords, An added pudding solemnised the Lord's: Constant at church, and 'Change; his gains were sure, His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, And long'd to tempt him like good Job of old: 350 But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Roused by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then lull against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: 'Live like yourself,' was soon my Lady's word; And, lo! two puddings smoked upon the board. 360
Asleep and naked as an Indian lay, An honest factor stole a gem away: He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eased his thought-- 'I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church, I'll now go twice-- And am so clear, too, of all other vice.'
The Tempter saw his time; the work he plied; Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, 370 Till all the demon makes his full descent In one abundant shower of cent, per cent.; Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, Then dubs director, and secures his soul.
Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a blessing, now was wit, And God's good providence, a lucky hit. Things change their titles, as our manners turn: His counting-house employ'd the Sunday-morn; 380 Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life) But duly sent his family and wife. There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide, My good old lady catch'd a cold, and died.