Still stands old Puff till one advances more.— Behold great madam, gliding through the crowd; Hear her too bid—decisive tone and loud! “Going! ’tis gone!” the hammer-holder cries— “Joy to you, Lady! you have gain’d a prize.” 70 Thus comes and goes the wealth, that, saved or spent, Buys not a moment’s credit or content. _Farewell!_ your fortune I forbear to guess; For chance, as well as sense, may give success. II. _P._ Say, what yon buildings, neat indeed, but low, So much alike, in one commodious row? _F._ You see our Alms-house: ancient men, decay’d, Are here sustain’d, who lost their way in trade; Here they have all that sober men require— So thought the Poet—“meat, and clothes, and fire”; 80 A little garden to each house pertains, Convenient each, and kept with little pains. Here for the sick are nurse and medicine found; Here walks and shaded alleys for the sound; Books of devotion on the shelves are placed, And not forbidden are the books of taste. The Church is near them—in a common seat The pious men with grateful spirit meet; Thus from the world, which they no more admire, They all in silent gratitude retire. 90 _P._ And is it so? Have all, with grateful mind, The world relinquish’d, and its ways resign’d? Look they not back with lingering love and slow, And fain would once again the oft-tried follies know? _F._ Too surely some! We must not think that all, Call’d to be hermits, would obey the call; We must not think that all forget the state In which they moved, and bless their humbler fate; But all may here the waste of life retrieve, And, ere they leave the world, its vices leave. 100 See yonder man, who walks apart, and seems Wrapt in some fond and visionary schemes; Who looks uneasy, as a man oppress’d By that large copper badge upon his breast. His painful shame, his self-tormenting pride, Would all that’s visible in bounty hide; And much his anxious breast is swell’d with woe, That where he goes his badge must with him go. _P._ Who then is he? Do I behold aright? My lofty Merchant in this humble plight! 110 Still has he pride? _F._ If common fame be just, He yet has pride—the pride that licks the dust; Pride that can stoop, and feed upon the base And wretched flattery of this humbling place; Nay, feeds himself! his failing is avow’d: He of the cause that made him poor is proud; Proud of his greatness, of the sums he spent, And honours shown him wheresoe’er he went. Yes! there he walks, that lofty man is he, Who was so rich; but great he could not be. 120 Now to the paupers who about him stand He tells of wonders, by his bounty plann’d; Tells of his traffic, where his vessels sail’d, And what a trade he drove—before he fail’d; Then what a failure, not a paltry sum, Like a mean trader, but for half a plum;