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Stultifera Navis

or, The Modern Ship of Fools [by S. W. H. Ireland]
  

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 I. 
 II. 
 III. 
 IV. 
 V. 
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 X. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
 XX. 
 XXI. 
 XXII. 
 XXIII. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
 XXIX. 
 XXX. 
 XXXI. 
 XXXII. 
 XXXIII. 
 XXXIV. 
 XXXV. 
 XXXVI. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
 XXXIX. 
 XL. 
 XLI. 
 XLII. 
 XLIII. 
 XLIV. 
 XLV. 
 XLVI. 
 XLVII. 
 XLVIII. 
 XLIX. 
 L. 
 LI. 
 LII. 
 LIII. 
 LIV. 
 LV. 
 LVI. 
 LVII. 
 LVIII. 
SECTION LVIII. OF TRADING FOOLS.
 LIX. 
 LX. 
 LXI. 
 LXII. 
 LXIII. 
 LXIV. 
 LXV. 
 LXVI. 


253

SECTION LVIII. OF TRADING FOOLS.

Fortuna multis dat nimium, nulli satis.

To gold this fool pays such devotion,
That, to ensure the precious store,
He, on the wide, inconstant ocean,
Ventures his certain wealth for more .
Now billows raging, winds loud beating,
Soon the fragile bark destroy:
Or, if rocks, shoals, or quicksands meeting,
Farewell the golden dreams of joy .

254

But, if dame fortune, less capricious,
Wafts to thee the precious mine;
Awake, thou fear'st—while dreams suspicious,
Ev'ry succeeding night are thine .
For what's possess'd, thou prov'st ungracious;
And thus defy'st all common sense;
Relying on pursuit fallacious,
Though bless'd with ease and competence.
Thus ever thankless fools, unsteady,
Spite of their reason, act amiss:
And, to exchange for ills, are ready,
The body's ease and mental bliss .

255

L'ENVOY OF THE POET.

Take special care, my friend, of what is thine;
For, this plain truth I'd have thee understand;
The storm will follow, tho' the sun doth shine:
Two birds in bush are not worth one in hand.

THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.

Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,
Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.
 

When the mercantile fool acts thus, he may well exclaim, Fortunæ cætera mando: or verify the Italian proverb, that says, A torto si lamenta del mare, chi due volte ei vuol tornare.

When the evil arrives, the fool then recollects the words of Syrus too late, who saith, Fortuna vitrea est, tum cum splendet, frangitur.

This stanza of the poet brings to mind the words of Shakspeare, who, speaking of fortune, thus expresses himself:

Will fortune never come with both hands full;
But write her fair words still in foulest letters?
She either gives a stomach, and no food;
Such are the poor in health: or else, a feast,
And takes away the stomach: such the rich,
That have abundance, and enjoy it not,

No country can afford more instances of maniac, speculative fools, than England, where they not only risk their fortunes in ventures abroad, but will equally grasp at any mad scheme at home. Some delve for mines in the bowels of the earth, and procure naught but dust for their cost and pains; whilst others must build houses for wise men to purchase at half price, when the speculator has become a bankrupt. In short, there is nothing too absurd for the folly of discontented minds, which prompts them to exchange affluence for poverty, ease and liberty, for the confines of a gaol.