I hate a crowd--but to do good, you know--
And people of condition should bestow."
Convinc'd, o'ercome, to K--p's grave matrons run;
Now set a daughter, and now stake a son;
Let health, fame, temper, beauty, fortune, fly;
And beggar half their race--thro' charity.
Immortal were we, or else mortal quite,
I less should blame this criminal delight:
But since the gay assembly's gayest room
Is but the upper story of some tomb,
Methinks, we need not our short beings shun,
And, thought to fly, contend to be undone.
We need not buy our ruin with our crime,
And give eternity to murder time.
The love of gaming is the worst of ills;
With ceaseless storms the blacken'd soul it fills;
Inveighs at heaven, neglects the ties of blood;
Destroys the power and will of doing good;
Kills health, pawns honour, plunges in disgrace,
And, what is still more dreadful--spoils your face.
See yonder set of thieves that live on spoil,
The scandal, and the ruin of our isle!
And see, (strange sight!) amid that ruffian band,
A form divine high wave her snowy hand;
That rattles loud a small enchanted box,
Which, loud as thunder, on the board she knocks.
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