THE FABLES OF ABSTEMIUS, &c. (continued 3)

Fab. CCCXLIX. A Corrupt Officer.

A Certain Governor of a Province that had a long time Pill’d, and Oppressed the People under his Charge, was call’d to Account in the Conclusion for the Receiving of Bribes; and sentenc’d to Refund what he had Wrongfully Taken. He came as Unwillingly to the Point, as a Bear to the Stake, which gave Occasion to somebodies saying, that it was with this Man and his Mony, as it is with Women and their Children. He was well enough pleas’d in the Getting of it; but it went to the very Heart of him when he Parted with it.

The Moral.

Great Officers are but like Sponges; they Suck till they are Full, and when they come once to be Squeez’d, the very Hearts Blood of them comes away with their Mony.

REFLEXION.

If Men could but Separate the Profit, and the Pleasure of their Sins, from the Sin it self, and keep the Former, when they Renounce the Other, what a Number of Penitents should we have in This Wicked World! But the Doctrine of Satisfaction and Restitution lies so Cursedly hard upon the Gizzards of our Publicans, that the Bloud in their Veins is not Half so Dear to ’em as the Treasure they have in their Coffers. The Man and the Money are in This Case as good as Incorporated, and Fining is little less then Flaying him: But Justice however finds him Out; And This, in Few Words, is the Sum of the Moral. Avarice is as hard to Part with any thing, as it was Eager to Get it. When a Man is once in Possession of an Ill Gotten Estate De Facto, he never Troubles his Head with the De Jure of the Question; but looks upon the Propriety of what he has Gotten by Rapine, to be Transferr’d to him by Providence: The money in short had Chang’d the Master, and he’d rather part with an Eye out of his Head, then with a Penny out of his Coffers.

Fab. CCCL. An Old Man that was willing to put off Death.

There goes a Story that Death call’d upon an Old Man, and bad him come along with him. The Man Excus’d himself, that T’other World was a Great Journy to take upon so short a Warning, and begg’d a Little time only to make his Will before he Dy’d. Why (says Death) You have had Warning enough One would think, to have made Ready before This. In Truth, says the Old Man, This is the First Time that ever I saw ye in my whole Life. That’s False, says Death; for you have had Daily Examples of Mortality before Your Eyes, in People of All Sorts, Ages, and Degrees; and is not the Frequent Spectacle of Other Peoples Deaths, a Memento sufficient to make You think of Your Own? Your Dim and Hollow Eyes methinks, the Loss of your Hearing, and the Faltering of the rest of your Senses, should Mind ye, without more ado, that Death has laid hold of ye already: And is this a time of day d’ye think to stand shuffling it off still? Your Peremptory Hour, I tell ye, is now come, and there’s No Thought of a Reprieve in the Case of Fate.

The Moral.

Want of Warning is No Excuse in the Case of Death: For Every Moment of our Lives, either Is, or Ought to be a Time of Preparation for’t.

REFLEXION.

’Tis the Great Bus’ness of Life to fit our selves for our End; and no Man can Live Well that has not Death in his Eye.

’Tis a strange Mixture of Madness and Folly in One Solecism, for People to Say or Imagin that ever any Man was Taken out of This World without time to Prepare himself for Death: But the Delay of Fitting our selves is our Own Fault, and we turn the very Sin into an Excuse: Every Breath we draw is not only a Step towards Death, but a Part of it. It was Born with us, It goes along with us: It is the Only Constant Companion that we have in This World, and yet we never think of it any more then if we knew Nothing on’t. The Text is True to the very Letter, that we Die Dayly, and yet we Feel it not. Every thing under the Sun reads a Lecture of Mortality to us. Our Neighbours, our Friends, our Relations, that fall Every where round about us, Admonish us of our Last Hour; and yet here’s an Old Man on the Wrong-side of Fourscore perhaps, Complaining that he is surpriz’d.

Fab. CCCLI. A Miser and his Bags.

A Covetous Rich Churl, finding himself at the Point of Death, caus’d his Coffers to be brought up, and his Bags laid before him. You and I, says he, must Part, and I would willingly Bequeath ye to those that will take most Delight in ye. Why then say the Bags, you must divide us betwixt your Heirs, and the Devils. Your Heirs will have Drink and Whores for your Money, and the Devils will be as well pleas’d on the Other hand, that they are to have your Soul for’t.

The Moral.

The Money of a Miser is the Last Friend he takes his Leave of in This World.

REFLEXION.

’Tis a Great deal of Pains that some People take to give Others Satisfaction, and to Torment themselves. But This Verifies the Old Proverb, Happy is the Son, whose Father goes to the Devil; for Ill Gotten Goods and Estates are commonly Squander’d away with as Little Conscience as they were Rak’d together. There goes a Canker along with them, when over and above the Iniquity of the Extortion and Oppression, the Bloud of so many Widows and Orphans cries to Heaven for Vengeance. Now a Less Generous Chuff then This in the Fable, would have Hugg’d his Bags to the Last, and have Envy’d That Satisfaction to his Heirs, which he Himself could Enjoy no longer. But it was his Care to Transmit to his Posterity a Curse with his Money, and to Bequeath them the Sin in the Inordinate Love of Riches, together with his Treasure.