Or him who bid the unhallowed flames retire, And snatched the trembling goddess from the fire;[97] The question is not put how far extends His piety, but what he yearly spends; Quick, to the business; how he lives and eats; How largely gives; how splendidly he treats; How many thousand acres feed his sheep; What are his rents; what servants does he keep? The account is soon cast up; the judges rate Our credit in the court by our estate. Swear by our gods, or those the Greeks adore, Thou art as sure forsworn, as thou art poor: The poor must gain their bread by perjury; } And e'en the gods, that other means deny, } In conscience must absolve them, when they lie. } Add, that the rich have still a gibe in store, And will be monstrous witty on the poor; For the torn surtout and the tattered vest, The wretch and all his wardrobe, are a jest; The greasy gown, sullied with often turning, Gives a good hint, to say,--The man's in mourning; Or, if the shoe be ripped, or patches put,-- He's wounded! see the plaister on his foot. Want is the scorn of every wealthy fool, And wit in rags is turned to ridicule. Pack hence, and from the covered benches rise, (The master of the ceremonies cries,) This is no place for you, whose small estate Is not the value of the settled rate; The sons of happy punks, the pandar's heir, } Are privileged to sit in triumph there, } To clap the first, and rule the theatre. } Up to the galleries, for shame, retreat; For, by the Roscian law,[98] the poor can claim no seat.-- Who ever brought to his rich daughter's bed, The man that polled but twelve pence for his head? Who ever named a poor man for his heir, Or called him to assist the judging chair? The poor were wise, who, by the rich oppressed, Withdrew, and sought a secret place of rest.[99] Once they did well, to free themselves from scorn; But had done better, never to return. Rarely they rise by virtue's aid, who lie Plunged in the depth of helpless poverty. At Rome 'tis worse, where house-rent by the year, } And servants' bellies, cost so devilish dear, } And tavern-bills run high for hungry cheer. } To drink or eat in earthen-ware we scorn, } Which cheaply country-cupboards does adorn, } And coarse blue hoods on holidays are worn. } Some distant parts of Italy are known, Where none but only dead men wear a gown;[100] On theatres of turf, in homely state, Old plays they act, old feasts they celebrate; The same rude song returns upon the crowd, And, by tradition, is for wit allowed.