An Elegaick Essay Upon the Decrease of the Groom-Porter and the Lotteries

AN Elegaick Essay Upon the Decease of the GROOM-PORTER, AND THE LOTTERIES. WHILST Sickly Lotteries lay Drawing on. And gasp'd for Breath, as tho' their Glass was run, Great NEAL, the Lord of Lotteries, is gone. Nor cou'd the Heroe keep his Vital Fire, Seeing his Off-spring ready to Expire: His Lady GOLD, of the Consumption spent, Was gone long since: And when Fates call'd, HE went; Having done the Work for which He here was sent: That is, to teach the Great Ones and the Small, How to get Money, and to Spend it all. Two such Extreams ne'r met in Man, but He, As Avarice and Prodigality. None more Sollicitous to hook it in, Or let it plentifully out agen, Unless the Noble Pyrrhus, who, we're told, Still urg'd Fresh Victories, and Scorn'd the Old. More Covetous than City Bankers are, And yet more Lavish than their Wives, or Heir. Not Love and Honour e'er had harder Pull, To get th' Ascendant of Prince Volscous Soul, Then Av'rice and Profufeness had to shew, Which was his greatest Favourite o'th' two. Tell us, Renowned Manes, which did move ye, To give an Half Crown for a Dish of Coffee? Was it because being Generous and Brave, You'd be obliging to each little Knave; Or cause the Love of larger Coyn Presided? Nor cou'd you bear to see the Thing divided. So Solomon once did dext'rously display, Which was the greatest Fav'rite of the Boy. But stay; Bold Muse, pray whither do you run? Consider! This is He wh' Oblig'd the Crown; Oppos'd th' Audaciousness of Petty Duns, And answer'd Publick Debts by Million Funds. His Loyalty deserves to be Rewarded, And in the Rolls of Endless Fame Recorded. Nor wou'd I seem t'expose the Noble Soul Of the Deceas'd, but his Great Deeds extol. The Narrow Souls he's left behind, n'er will To his Example be Conformable, But those whom Poor they find, they'll leave so still. Nor will be drawn to tapp their Sacred Store, Except to such as have enough before. Tho' 'tis confess'd by all, that 'tis much better To give to each his Due, be't Paul, or Peter. Mourn all you Sufferers now he is gone, Mourn your hard Lott; but put no Mourning on: Nor need you trouble your Upholsterer to Accommodate you with the outward Shew; Your inward Throbs are lively Arguments Of your Unfeign'd and Real Discontents. Mourn all ye Sons and Daughters of the Lott, Who crow'd up Mercers-Hall, now He is Not, Who influenc'd every Gaming-School about him, Nor cou'd you get one Happy Chance without him. Mourn (if't be possible) ye Spritely Beaux, Lest now he's gone your selves may chance to lose, Your hopes of Powder'd Perukes and Gay Cloaths. 'Tis pity, Pretty Ladies, you shou'd Mourn; But 'tis apparent too 'twill be your Turn, Especially whose Gallants wait to know How the Good Fortunes of your Tickets go, And whether you shall be made Wives, or no. Mourn you Poor Venturers who wou'd run on, And Tick for Tickets till you'ryou're quite Undone. But you whose Fortunes well can bear the Loss, And need not come away by Weeping-Cross; Keep your own Counsels, let it ne'er be known, How many Guinea's foolishly are flown, But still Comport your selves, like those that won. You, Fortunes Darling, who the Prize have got, May Mourn to think how many go without, Who Curse Projecting Sydenham, and your Lot: So the Great Caesar is in Story said, To Mourn the Mighty Spoils himself had made. Reflect upon the Right by which you Claim, And that Estates are got and lost by th' same. I know the Lawyers us'd to have more Wit, Then e'er to be by Canting Gypsies bit, Or the same Premunire incur with Cit. And therefore check my too Luxuriant Pen, And own them something more than other Men: Nor can I think they shou'd be e'er drawn in, No more than I wou'd think the Grave Divine. These know that Fortune is an Empty Name, (Tho' Fools, to Heaven would Exalt the Dame) And Prudence only leads to endless Fame. But yet to see whole Coffee-Houses fill'd With as fine Gentlemen as Earth can yield, Comparing Figures with such Care and Zeal, Wou'd make one think they're in for Cakes and Ale. Hereafter, Gentlemen, when some loose Corn, Ferments within your Purse, and makes it burn; The Poor are Plentiful about the Street, Give it to them, they'll qualifie its Heat; There you'll be surer far to get a Prize, Then by Vain Tickets at the Lotteries: False Unrewarded things, that seem to be, Much like the Pardons of the Jubilee. Those who Affirm our Age Degenerate From that of our Forefathers Ancient State, Must mean our Judgment, not our Strength's decreas'd; Sampson's Alive, tho' Solomon's Deceas'd. LOTTERIES we chuse, altho' we know the Cheat, And like some Artless Gamester still will beat All the Fields round, except where Puss does sit. Some Sparks indeed pretend they wou'd forbear To take (tho' readily they could) the Hare. But He, whose better Lot 'tis to be Winner, Thinks they'd be glad to have her for their Dinner. And so does every one besides, who knows The Benefit of Meat, and Drink and Cloaths; Which some of those which Venner'd on the Knack, May for that Cause, now Christmas comes yet lack. In fine, May such Prodigious Follies cease, May Honest Industry our Fortunes raise, And Acts of Charity be our Exercise.