Base was his usage, vile his whole employ, And all despised and fed the pliant boy. At length, "'tis time he should abroad be sent," Was whisper'd near him--and abroad he went. One morn they call'd him, Richard answered not; They deem'd him hanging, and in time forgot; Yet miss'd him long, as each, throughout the clan, Found he "had better spared a better man." 740 Now Richard's talents for the world were fit, He'd no small cunning, and had some small wit; Had that calm look which seem'd to all assent, And that complacent speech which nothing meant; He'd but one care, and that he strove to hide, How best for Richard Monday to provide. Steel, through opposing plates, the magnet draws, And steely atoms culls from dust and straws; And thus our hero, to his interest true, Gold through all bars and from each trifle drew; 750 But, still more surely round the world to go, This fortune's child had neither friend nor foe. Long lost to us, at last our man we trace-- Sir Richard Monday died at Monday-place. His lady's worth, his daughter's, we peruse, And find his grandsons all as rich as Jews; He gave reforming charities a sum, And bought the blessings of the blind and dumb; Bequeathed to missions money from the stocks, And Bibles issued from his private box; 760 But, to his native place severely just, He left a pittance bound in rigid trust-- Two paltry pounds, on every quarter's-day, (At church produced) for forty loaves should pay: A stinted gift, that to the parish shows He kept in mind their bounty and their blows! To farmers three, the year has given a son: Finch on the Moor, and French, and Middleton. Twice in this year a female Giles I see: A Spalding once, and once a Barnaby-- 770 A humble man is he, and, when they meet, Our farmers find him on a distant seat; There for their wit he serves a constant theme-- They praise his dairy, they extol his team, They ask the price of each unrivall'd steed. And whence his sheep, that admirable breed? His thriving arts they beg he would explain, And where he puts the money he must gain. They have their daughters, but they fear their friend Would think his sons too much would condescend; 780 They have their sons who would their fortunes try, But fear his daughters will their suit deny. So runs the joke, while James, with sigh profound, And face of care, looks moveless on the ground; His cares, his sighs, provoke the insult more, And point the jest--for Barnaby is poor.