Are all forgotten for these painted things; Paper and paste, vile figures and poor spots, Level all minds, philosophers and sots; And give an equal spirit, pause, and force, Join'd with peculiar diction, to discourse: "Who deals?--you led--we're three by cards--had you Honour in hand?"--"Upon my honour, two." Hour after hour, men thus contending sit, Grave without sense, and pointed without wit. Thus it appears these envied Clubs possess No certain means of social happiness; Yet there's a good that flows from scenes like these - Man meets with man at leisure and at ease; We to our neighbours and our equals come, And rub off pride that man. contracts at home; For there, admitted master, he is prone To claim attention and to talk alone: But here he meets with neither son nor spouse; No humble cousin to his bidding bows; To his raised voice his neighbours' voices rise, To his high look as lofty look replies; When much he speaks, he finds that ears are closed, And certain signs inform him when he's prosed; Here all the value of a listener know, And claim, in turn, the favour they bestow. No pleasure gives the speech, when all would speak, And all in vain a civil hearer seek. To chance alone we owe the free discourse, In vain you purpose what you cannot force; 'Tis when the favourite themes unbidden spring, That fancy soars with such unwearied wing; Then may you call in aid the moderate glass, But let it slowly and unprompted pass; So shall there all things for the end unite, And give that hour of rational delight. Men to their Clubs repair, themselves to please, To care for nothing, and to take their ease; In fact, for play, for wine, for news they come: Discourse is shared with friends or found at home. 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; 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: 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; 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;