Pride lives with all; strange names our rustics give To helpless infants, that their own may live; Pleased to be known, they'll some attention claim, And find some by-way to the house of fame. The straightest furrow lifts the ploughman's art; The hat he gain'd has warmth for head and heart; The bowl that beats the greater number down 680 Of tottering nine-pins, gives to fame the clown; Or, foil'd in these, he opes his ample jaws, And lets a frog leap down, to gain applause; Or grins for hours, or tipples for a week; Or challenges a well-pinch'd pig to squeak. Some idle deed, some child's preposterous name, Shall make him known, and give his folly fame. To name an infant meet our village-sires, Assembled all, as such event requires; Frequent and full, the rural sages sate, 690 And speakers many urged the long debate. Some harden'd knaves, who roved the country round, Had left a babe within the parish-bound.-- First, of the fact they question'd--"Was it true?" The child was brought--"What then remain'd to do? Was't dead or living?" This was fairly proved: 'Twas pinch'd, it roar'd, and every doubt removed. Then by what name th' unwelcome guest to call Was long a question, and it posed them all; For he who lent it to a babe unknown, 700 Censorious men might take it for his own: They look'd about, they gravely spoke to all, And not one Richard answer'd to the call. Next they inquired the day, when, passing by, Th' unlucky peasant heard the stranger's cry: This known, how food and raiment they might give, Was next debated--for the rogue would live; At last, with all their words and work content, } Back to their homes the prudent vestry went, } And Richard Monday to the workhouse sent. 710 } There was he pinch'd and pitied, thump'd and fed, And duly took his beatings and his bread; Patient in all control, in all abuse, He found contempt and kicking have their use-- Sad, silent, supple, bending to the blow, A slave of slaves, the lowest of the low; His pliant soul gave way to all things base; He knew no shame, he dreaded no disgrace. It seem'd, so well his passions he suppressed, No feeling stirr'd his ever-torpid breast; 720 Him might the meanest pauper bruise and cheat, He was a footstool for the beggar's feet; His were the legs that ran at all commands; They used on all occasions Richard's hands. His very soul was not his own; he stole As others order'd, and without a dole; In all disputes, on either part he lied, And freely pledged his oath on either side; In all rebellions Richard join'd the rest, In all detections Richard first confess'd. 730 Yet, though disgraced, he watch'd his time so well, He rose in favour, when in fame he fell;