The legacies of Tadius too are flown;
All spent, and on the self-fame errand gone.
How little then to my poor share will fall!
Little indeed; but yet that little's all,
Nor tell me, in a dying father's tone,
Be careful ftill of the main chance, my fon;
Put out thy principal in trusty hands:
Live on the use; and never dip thy lands:
But yet what's left for me? What 's left, my friend!
Ask that again, and all the reft I spend.
Is not my fortunes at my own command ?
Pour oil, and pour it with a plenteous hand,
Upon my fallads, boy: fhall I be fed
With fodden nettles, and a fing'd fow's head?
'Tis holiday; provide me better cheer;
'Tis holiday, and shall be round the year.
Shall I my houshold gods and genius cheat,
To make him rich, who grudges me my meat?
That he may loll at eafe; and, pamper'd high,
When I am laid, may feed on giblet-pie?
And, when his throbbing luft extends the vein,
Have wherewithal his whores to entertain?
Shall I in homespun cloth be clad, that he
His paunch in triumph may before him fee?
Go, mifer, go; for lucre fell thy foul;
Truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to pole:
That men may fay, when thou art dead and gone,
See what a vaft eftate he left his fon!