Part II

NOT many months were gone and past,
When State-necessities,
Thro' ev'ry Province in the land,
Exacted large supplies.

Strait the penurious FOSCUE hears,
And trembles for his store;
He veils his av'rice with a lye,
And pleads that he is poor.

Pleads, "How should he, alas! have means
"The public wants to aid?
"How scrape together more than serves
"To purchase daily bread?"

Such were the mean evasions sent
To the State Deputies,
In hope from him they would not claim
A share of the supplies.

Yet, lest a gen'ral search be made,
He frames a secret hold,
Wherein he craftily conceals
His heap of treasur'd gold.

Some few short days elaps'd, they come,
To FOSCUE's they repair,
Suspecting much some mean deceit,
But FOSCUE is not there.

They search the dwelling high and low,
They search the land around;
But vain their search, enquiry vain,
No FOSCUE can be found.

Some few days more are now elaps'd,
When FOSCUE's house and lands,
Together with the post he fill'd,
Are giv'n to other hands.

Lo! now the antient edifice
Repair immediate asks,
And the new substitute himself
O'erlooks the workman's tasks.

As the foundation, dang'rous grown,
With caution they explore,
Within the cellar's depth they find
A close-concealed door.

A key, within its fixture plac'd,
Then challenges amaze,
Which, turning in a sliding lock,
The weighty door they raise.

Descending, by the taper's light,
Astounded they behold
Old FOSCUE's famish'd carcase stretch'd
Amid his hoarded gold.

There hoping to conceal his pelf,
The pond'rous, self-lock'd door,
In vengeance o'er his head had clos'd,
To ope for him no more.

Debarr'd, at once, all hope to view
The light of Heav'n again,
What dreadful, complicated pangs
Did FOSCUE not sustain?

Might not prophetic VALMONT's words
Return upon his ear,
While there condemn'd to "wail and cry,
"Where none his cries could hear?"

The Miser's lacerated limbs
Disgusted they survey,
The flesh from either shrivell'd arm
Thro' hunger gnaw'd away.

Thus, self-devoted FOSCUE dy'd,
Most strange, but righteous doom!
Since all his hoarded, ill-got wealth
But serv'd to build his tomb.