Cards, too, in peevish passion torn, The sport of whirling winds are borne. _80 'To snails inveterate hate I bear, Who spoil the verdure of the year; The caterpillar I detest, The blooming spring's voracious pest; The locust too, whose ravenous band Spreads sudden famine o'er the land. But what are these? The dice's throw At once hath laid a forest low. The cards are dealt, the bet is made, And the wide park hath lost its shade. _90 Thus is my kingdom's pride defaced, And all its ancient glories waste. All this,' he cries, 'is Fortune's doing: 'Tis thus she meditates my ruin. By Fortune, that false, fickle jade, More havoc in one hour is made, Than all the hungry insect race, Combined, can in an age deface.' Fortune, by chance, who near him pass'd, O'erheard the vile aspersion cast. _100 'Why, Pan,' says she, 'what's all this rant? 'Tis every country-bubble's cant; Am I the patroness of vice? Is't I who cog or palm the dice? Did I the shuffling art reveal, 105 To mark the cards, or range the deal? In all the employments men pursue, I mind the least what gamesters do. There may (if computation's just) One now and then my conduct trust: _110 I blame the fool, for what can I, When ninety-nine my power defy? These trust alone their fingers' ends, And not one stake on me depends. Whene'er the gaming board is set, Two classes of mankind are met: But if we count the greedy race, The knaves fill up the greater space. 'Tis a gross error, held in schools, That Fortune always favours fools. _120 In play it never bears dispute; That doctrine these felled oaks confute. Then why to me such rancour show? 'Tis folly, Pan, that is thy foe. By me his late estate he won, But he by folly was undone.' * * * * * FABLE XIII. PLUTUS, CUPID, AND TIME.