In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung, 300 On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw, With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw, The George and Garter dangling from that bed Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red, Great Villiers[41] lies--alas! how changed from him, That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim! Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove, The bower of wanton Shrewsbury,[42] and love; Or just as gay, at council, in a ring Of mimick'd statesmen, and their merry king. 310 No wit to flatter, left of all his store; No fool to laugh at, which he valued more. There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends. His Grace's fate sage Cutler[43] could foresee, And well (he thought) advised him, 'Live like me.' As well his Grace replied, 'Like you, Sir John? That I can do, when all I have is gone.' Resolve me, Reason, which of these is worse, Want with a full, or with an empty purse? 320 Thy life more wretched, Cutler, was confess'd, Arise, and tell me, was thy death more bless'd? Cutler saw tenants break, and houses fall; For very want he could not build a wall. His only daughter in a stranger's power; For very want he could not pay a dower. A few gray hairs his reverend temples crown'd, 'Twas very want that sold them for two pound. What even denied a cordial at his end, Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend? 330 What but a want, which you perhaps think mad, Yet numbers feel--the want of what he had! Cutler and Brutus, dying, both exclaim, 'Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name!' Say, for such worth are other worlds prepared Or are they both in this their own reward? A knotty point! to which we now proceed. But you are tired--I'll tell a tale-- _B_. Agreed. _P_. Where London's column,[44] pointing at the skies Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies; 340 There dwelt a citizen of sober fame, A plain good man, and Balaam was his name; Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth; His word would pass for more than he was worth. One solid dish his week-day meal affords, An added pudding solemnised the Lord's: Constant at church, and 'Change; his gains were sure, His givings rare, save farthings to the poor. The devil was piqued such saintship to behold, And long'd to tempt him like good Job of old: 350 But Satan now is wiser than of yore, And tempts by making rich, not making poor. Roused by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then lull against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore. Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks, He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes: 'Live like yourself,' was soon my Lady's word; And, lo! two puddings smoked upon the board. 360