But cards with books are incidental things; We've nights devoted to these queens and kings. Then, if we choose the social game, we may; Now, 'tis a duty, and we're bound to play; 110 Nor ever meeting of the social kind Was more engaging, yet had less of mind. Our eager parties, when the lunar light Throws its full radiance on the festive night, Of either sex, with punctual hurry come, And fill, with one accord, an ample room. Pleased, the fresh packs on cloth of green they see, And, seizing, handle with preluding glee; They draw, they sit, they shuffle, cut and deal; Like friends assembled, but like foes to feel: 120 But yet not all--a happier few have joys Of mere amusement, and their cards are toys; No skill nor art, nor fretful hopes have they, But while their friends are gaming, laugh and play. Others there are, the veterans of the game, Who owe their pleasure to their envied fame; Through many a year, with hard-contested strife, Have they attain'd this glory of their life. Such is that ancient burgess, whom in vain Would gout and fever on his couch detain; 130 And that large lady, who resolves to come, Though a first fit has warn'd her of her doom! These are as oracles: in every cause They settle doubts, and their decrees are laws; But all are troubled, when, with dubious look, Diana questions what Apollo spoke. Here avarice first, the keen desire of gain, Rules in each heart, and works in every brain; Alike the veteran-dames and virgins feel, Nor care what gray-beards or what striplings deal; 140 Sex, age, and station, vanish from their view, And gold, their sov'reign good, the mingled crowd pursue. Hence they are jealous, and as rivals, keep A watchful eye on the beloved heap; Meantime discretion bids the tongue be still, And mild good-humour strives with strong ill-will; Till prudence fails; when, all impatient grown, They make their grief, by their suspicions, known. "Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play, He'd rave to see you throw your cards away; 150 Not that I care a button--not a pin For what I lose; but we had cards to win: A saint in heaven would grieve to see such hand Cut up by one who will not understand."-- "Complain of me! and so you might indeed, If I had ventured on that foolish lead, That fatal heart--but I forgot your play-- Some folk have ever thrown their hearts away."-- "Yes, and their diamonds; I have heard of one Who made a beggar of an only son."-- 160 "Better a beggar, than to see him tied To art and spite, to insolence and pride."-- "Sir, were I you, I'd strive to be polite, Against my nature, for a single night."-- "So did you strive, and, madam! with success; I knew no being we could censure less!"--