Riches, like insects, when conceal'd they lie, Wait but for wings, and in their season fly. 170 Who sees pale Mammon pine amidst his store, Sees but a backward steward for the poor; This year a reservoir, to keep and spare; The next a fountain, spouting through his heir, In lavish streams to quench a country's thirst, And men and dogs shall drink him till they burst.
Old Cotta shamed his fortune and his birth, Yet was not Cotta void of wit or worth: What though (the use of barbarous spits forgot) His kitchen vied in coolness with his grot? 180 His court with nettles, moats with cresses stored, With soups unbought and salads bless'd his board? If Cotta lived on pulse, it was no more Than Brahmins, saints, and sages did before; To cram the rich was prodigal expense, And who would take the poor from Providence? Like some lone Chartreux stands the good old Hall, Silence without, and fasts within the wall; No rafter'd roofs with dance and tabor sound, No noontide-bell invites the country round: 190 Tenants with sighs the smokeless towers survey, And turn the unwilling steeds another way: Benighted wanderers, the forest o'er, Curse the saved candle, and unopening door; While the gaunt mastiff growling at the gate, Affrights the beggar whom he longs to eat.
Not so his son; he mark'd this oversight, And then mistook reverse of wrong for right. (For what to shun will no great knowledge need, But what to follow, is a task indeed). 200 Yet sure, of qualities deserving praise, More go to ruin fortunes, than to raise. What slaughter'd hecatombs, what floods of wine, Fill the capacious squire, and deep divine! Yet no mean motive this profusion draws, His oxen perish in his country's cause; 'Tis George and Liberty that crowns the cup, And zeal for that great house which eats him up. The woods recede around the naked seat, The silvans groan--no matter--for the fleet; 210 Next goes his wool--to clothe our valiant bands, Last, for his country's love, he sells his lands. To town he comes, completes the nation's hope, And heads the bold train-bands, and burns a pope. And shall not Britain now reward his toils, Britain, that pays her patriots with her spoils? In vain at court the bankrupt pleads his cause, His thankless country leaves him to her laws.