I wonder how it comes to pass that there has never been any law made against him. Against him, do I say? I mean for him, as there is a public provision made for all other madmen. It is very reasonable that the king should appoint some persons (and I think the courtiers would not be against this proposition) to manage his estate during his life (for his heirs commonly need not that care), and out of it to make it their business to see that he should not want alimony befitting his condition, which he could never get out of his own cruel fingers. We relieve idle vagrants and counterfeit beggars, but have no care at all of these really poor men, who are, methinks, to be respectfully treated in regard of their quality. I might be endless against them, but I am almost choked with the superabundance of the matter. Too much plenty impoverishes me as it does them. I will conclude this odious subject with part of Horace’s first Satire, which take in his own familiar style:— I admire, Mæcenas, how it comes to pass, That no man ever yet contented was, Nor is, nor perhaps will be, with that state In which his own choice plants him, or his fate. Happy the merchant! the old soldier cries. The merchant, beaten with tempestuous skies Happy the soldier! one half-hour to thee Gives speedy death or glorious victory. The lawyer, knocked up early from his rest By restless clients, calls the peasant blest. The peasant, when his labours ill succeed, Envies the mouth which only talk does feed. ’Tis not, I think you’ll say, that I want store Of instances, if here I add no more, They are enough to reach at least a mile Beyond long Orator Fabius his style. But hold, you whom no fortune e’er endears, Gentlemen, malcontents, and mutineers, Who bounteous Jove so often cruel call, Behold, Jove’s now resolved to please you all. Thou, soldier, be a merchant; merchant, thou A soldier be; and lawyer to the plough. Change all your stations straight. Why do they stay? The devil a man will change now when he may. Were I in General Jove’s abusèd case, By Jove, I’d cudgel this rebellious race; But he’s too good; be all, then, as you were; However, make the best of what you are, And in that state be cheerful and rejoice, Which either was your fate or was your choice. No; they must labour yet, and sweat and toil, And very miserable be awhile. But ’tis with a design only to gain What may their age with plenteous ease maintain; The prudent pismire does this lesson teach, And industry to lazy mankind preach. The little drudge does trot about and sweat, Nor does he straight devour all he can get, But in his temperate mouth carries it home, A stock for winter which he knows must come. And when the rolling world to creatures here Turns up the deformed wrong side of the year, And shuts him in with storms and cold and wet,