Those seats and sources both of good and ill, By what they cure in Boys, and what they kill. TALE XX. _THE WILL._ I. Thus to his Friend an angry Father spoke— Nay, do not think that I the WILL revoke. My cruel Son in every way I’ve tried, } And every vice have found in him but pride; } For he, of pride possess’d, would meaner vices hide. } Money he wastes, I will not say he spends; } He neither makes the poor nor rich his friends— } To those he nothing gives, to these he never lends. } “’Tis for himself each legal pale he breaks; He joins the miser’s spirit to the rake’s. 10 Like the worst Roman in the worst of times, He can be guilty of conflicting crimes; Greedy of others’ wealth, unknown the use, And of his own contemptuously profuse. “To such a mind shall I my wealth confide, That you to nobler, worthier ends, may guide? No! let my Will my scorn of vice express, And let him learn repentance from distress.” So said the Father; and the Friend, who spurn’d Wealth ill-acquired, his sober speech return’d— 20 “The youth is faulty, but his faults are weigh’d With a strong bias, and by wrath repaid; Pleasure deludes him, not the vain design Of making vices unallied combine. He wastes your wealth, for he is yet a boy; He covets more, for he would more enjoy. For, my good friend, believe me, very few, } At once are prodigals and misers too— } The spendthrift vice engrafted on the Jew. } Leave me one thousand pounds; for I confess 30 I have my wants, and will not tax you less. But your estate let this young man enjoy: If he reforms, you’ve saved a grateful boy; If not, a father’s cares and troubles cease, You’ve done your duty, and may rest in peace.” The Will in hand, the Father musing stood, Then gravely answered, “Your advice is good; Yet take the paper, and in safety keep; I’ll make another Will before I sleep; But, if I hear of some atrocious deed, 40 That deed I’ll burn, and yours will then succeed. Two thousand I bequeath you. No reproof! And there are small bequests—he’ll have enough; For, if he wastes, he would with all be poor; And, if he wastes not, he will need no more.” The Friends then parted; this the Will possess’d, And that another made—so things had rest. George, who was conscious that his Father grew Sick and infirm, engaged in nothing new. No letters came from injured man or maid; 50 No bills from wearied duns, that must be paid; No fierce reproaches from deserted fair, Mixed with wild tenderness of desperate prayer; So hope rose softly in the parent’s breast; } He, dying, called his son and fondly blest, } Hailed the propitious tear, and mildly sunk to rest. } Unhappy Youth! e’er yet the tomb was closed,