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Who shall decide, when Doctors disagree, / And soundest Casuists doubt like you and me? / You hold the Word, from Jove to Momus giv'n, / That man was made
the standing jest of heav'n, / And Gold but sent to keep the fools in play, / For some to heap, and half to throw away. / But I, who think more highly of our kind, /
(And surely Heav'n and I are of a mind) / Opine, that Nature, as in duty bound, / Deep hid the shining mischief under ground: / But when, by Man's audacious labour won,
/ Flam'd forth this rival to its Sire the Sun, / Then careful Heav'n supply'd two sorts of men, / To squander These, and Those to hide agen. / Like Doctors thus,
when much dispute has past, / We find our Tenets just the same at last. / Both fairly owning, Riches in effect / No grace of Heav'n, or token of th'Elect; / Giv'n to the Fool, the Mad,
the Vain, the Evil. / To Ward, to Waters, Chartres, and the Devil. / What Nature wants, commodious Gold bestows, / 'Tis thus we eat the bread another sows: / But how unequal it bestows,
observe, / 'Tis thus we riot, while who sow it, starve. / What Nature wants (a phrase I much distrust) / Extends to Luxury, extends to Lust: / Useful, I grant, it serves what life requires, / But dreadful too,
the dark Assassin hires: / Trade it may help, Society extend; / But lures the Pyrate, and corrupts the Friend: / It raises armies in a Nation's aid, / But bribes a Senate, and the land's betray'd. /
In vain may Heroes fight, and Patriots rave, / If secret Gold saps on from knave to knave. / Once, we confess, beneath the Patriot's cloak, / From the crack'd bag the dropping Guinea spoke, /
And gingling down the back-stairs, told the crew, / 'Old Cato is as great a Rogue as you.' / Blest Paper-credit! Last and best supply! / That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly! / Gold, imp'd by thee,
can compass hardest things, / Can pocket States, or fetch or carry Kings; / A single leaf can waft an Army o'er, / Or ship off Senates to a distant shore; / A leaf like Sybil's, scatters to and fro / Our fates and fortunes
as the winds shall blow; / Pregnant with thousands flits the scrap unseen, / And silent sells a King, or buys a Queen. Alexander Pope, (dalla) EPISTLE III. To the Right Honourable Allen Lord Bathurst: Of the use of Riches, da Poetical Works, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1989
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