The time hath been, a boyish, blushing time, When modesty was scarcely held a crime; When the most wicked had some touch of grace, And trembled to meet Virtue face to face; When those, who, in the cause of Sin grown gray, Had served her without grudging day by day, Were yet so weak an awkward shame to feel And strove that glorious service to conceal: We, better bred, and than our sires more wise, Such paltry narrowness of soul despise: 10 To virtue every mean pretence disclaim, Lay bare our crimes, and glory in our shame. Time was, ere Temperance had fled the realm, Ere Luxury sat guttling at the helm From meal to meal, without one moment's space Reserved for business or allow'd for grace; Ere Vanity had so far conquer'd Sense To make us all wild rivals in expense, To make one fool strive to outvie another, And every coxcomb dress against his brother; 20 Ere banish'd Industry had left our shores, And Labour was by Pride kick'd out of doors; Ere Idleness prevail'd sole queen in courts, Or only yielded to a rage for sports; Ere each weak mind was with externals caught, And dissipation held the place of thought; Ere gambling lords in vice so far were gone To cog the die, and bid the sun look on; Ere a great nation, not less just than free, Was made a beggar by economy; 30 Ere rugged Honesty was out of vogue; Ere Fashion stamp'd her sanction on the rogue; Time was, that men had conscience, that they made Scruples to owe what never could be paid. Was one then found, however high his name, So far above his fellows damn'd to shame, Who dared abuse, and falsify his trust, Who, being great, yet dared to be unjust, Shunn'd like a plague, or but at distance view'd, He walk'd the crowded streets in solitude, 40 Nor could his rank and station in the land Bribe one mean knave to take him by the hand. Such rigid maxims (Oh! might such revive To keep expiring Honesty alive) Made rogues, all other hopes of fame denied, Not just through principle, be just through pride. Our times, more polish'd, wear a different face; Debts are an honour, payment a disgrace. Men of weak minds, high-placed on Folly's list, May gravely tell us trade cannot subsist, 50 Nor all those thousands who're in trade employ'd, If faith 'twixt man and man is once destroy'd. Why--be it so--we in that point accord; But what are trade, and tradesmen, to a lord? Faber, from day to day, from year to year, Hath had the cries of tradesmen in his ear, Of tradesmen by his villany betray'd, And, vainly seeking justice, bankrupts made. What is't to Faber? Lordly as before, He sits at ease, and lives to ruin more: 60 Fix'd at his door, as motionless as stone, Begging, but only begging for their own, Unheard they stand, or only heard by those, Those slaves in livery, who mock their woes. What is't to Faber? He continues great,