Poverty wants some, luxury many, avarice all things.
Somebody says of a virtuous and wise man, that having nothing, he has
all. This is just his antipode, who, having all things, yet has nothing.
He is a guardian eunuch to his beloved gold: _Audivi eos amatores esse
maximos sed nil potesse_. They are the fondest lovers, but impotent to
enjoy.
And, oh, what man’s condition can be worse
Than his, whom plenty starves, and blessings curse?
The beggars but a common fate deplore,
The rich poor man’s emphatically poor.
I wonder how it comes to pass that there has never been any law made
against him. Against him, do I say? I mean for him, as there is a
public provision made for all other madmen. It is very reasonable that
the king should appoint some persons (and I think the courtiers would not
be against this proposition) to manage his estate during his life (for
his heirs commonly need not that care), and out of it to make it their
business to see that he should not want alimony befitting his condition,
which he could never get out of his own cruel fingers. We relieve idle
vagrants and counterfeit beggars, but have no care at all of these really
poor men, who are, methinks, to be respectfully treated in regard of
their quality. I might be endless against them, but I am almost choked
with the superabundance of the matter. Too much plenty impoverishes me
as it does them. I will conclude this odious subject with part of
Horace’s first Satire, which take in his own familiar style:—
I admire, Mæcenas, how it comes to pass,
That no man ever yet contented was,
Nor is, nor perhaps will be, with that state
In which his own choice plants him, or his fate.
Happy the merchant! the old soldier cries.
The merchant, beaten with tempestuous skies
Happy the soldier! one half-hour to thee
Gives speedy death or glorious victory.
The lawyer, knocked up early from his rest
By restless clients, calls the peasant blest.
The peasant, when his labours ill succeed,
Envies the mouth which only talk does feed.
’Tis not, I think you’ll say, that I want store
Of instances, if here I add no more,
They are enough to reach at least a mile
Beyond long Orator Fabius his style.
But hold, you whom no fortune e’er endears,
Gentlemen, malcontents, and mutineers,
Who bounteous Jove so often cruel call,
Behold, Jove’s now resolved to please you all.
Thou, soldier, be a merchant; merchant, thou
A soldier be; and lawyer to the plough.
Change all your stations straight. Why do they stay?
The devil a man will change now when he may.
Were I in General Jove’s abusèd case,
By Jove, I’d cudgel this rebellious race;
But he’s too good; be all, then, as you were;
However, make the best of what you are,
And in that state be cheerful and rejoice,
Which either was your fate or was your choice.
No; they must labour yet, and sweat and toil,
And very miserable be awhile.
But ’tis with a design only to gain
What may their age with plenteous ease maintain;
The prudent pismire does this lesson teach,
And industry to lazy mankind preach.
The little drudge does trot about and sweat,
Nor does he straight devour all he can get,
But in his temperate mouth carries it home,
A stock for winter which he knows must come.
And when the rolling world to creatures here
Turns up the deformed wrong side of the year,
And shuts him in with storms and cold and wet,
He cheerfully does his past labours eat.
Oh, does he so? your wise example, the ant
Does not at all times rest, and plenty want.
But, weighing justly a mortal ant’s condition,
Divides his life ’twixt labour and fruition.
Thee neither heat, nor storms, nor wet, nor cold
From thy unnatural diligence can withhold,
To the Indies thou wouldst run rather than see
Another, though a friend, richer than thee.
Fond man! what good or beauty can be found
In heaps of treasure buried under ground?
Which, rather than diminished e’er to see,
Thou wouldst thyself, too, buried with them be
And what’s the difference is’t not quite as bad
Never to use, as never to have had?
In thy vast barns millions of quarters store,
Thy belly, for all that, will hold no more
Than mine does. Every baker makes much bread,
What then? He’s with no more than others fed.
Do you within the bounds of Nature live,
And to augment your own you need not strive;
One hundred acres will no less for you
Your life’s whole business than ten thousand do.
But pleasant ’tis to take from a great store;
What, man? though you’re resolved to take no more
Than I do from a small one; if your will
Be but a pitcher or a pot to fill,
To some great river for it must you go,
When a clear spring just at your feet does flow?
Give me the spring which does to human use,
Safe, easy, and untroubled stores produce;
He who scorns these, and needs will drink at Nile,
Must run the danger of the crocodile;
And of the rapid stream itself which may,
At unawares bear him perhaps away.
In a full flood Tantalus stands, his skin
Washed o’er in vain, for ever dry within;
He catches at the stream with greedy lips,
From his touched mouth the wanton torment slips.
You laugh now, and expand your careful brow:
’Tis finely said, but what’s all this to you?
Change but the name, this fable is thy story,
Thou in a flood of useless wealth dost glory,
Which thou canst only touch, but never taste;
The abundance still, and still the want does last.
The treasures of the gods thou wouldst not spare,
But when they’re made thine own, they sacred are,
And must be kept with reverence; as if thou
No other use of precious gold didst know
But that of curious pictures to delight
With the fair stamp thy virtuoso sight.
The only true and genuine use is this,
To buy the things which nature cannot miss
Without discomfort, oil, and vital bread.
And wine by which the life of life is fed,
And all those few things else by which we live
All that remains is given for thee to give.
If cares and troubles, envy, grief, and fear,
The bitter fruits be which fair riches bear,
If a new poverty grow out of store,
The old plain way, ye gods! let me be poor.