The legacies of Tadius too are flown;
All spent, and on the self-fame errand gone.
How little then to my poor fhare 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 trufty hands:

Live on the ufe; and never dip thy lands:

But yet what's left for me? What's left, my friend!

Afk that again, and all the reft I spend.
Is not my fortune 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 houfhold 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 homefpun 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 say, when thou art dead and gone,
See what a vast estate he left his fon!

How large a family of brawny knaves,
Well fed, and fat as Cappadocian slaves!
Increase thy wealth, and double all thy store;
'Tis done: now double that, and fwell the score;
To ev'ry thousand add ten thousand more.
Then say, Chryfippus, thou who wouldst confine
Thy heap, where I fhall put an end to mine.