“The cruel wretch
Who, all day long in sordid pleasure rolled,
Himself a useless load, has squandered vile
Upon his scoundrel train, what might have cheered
A drooping family of modest worth.”
Horace Walpole, on being complimented by letter on the patience with which he bore an acute attack of his chronic malady, replies: “If people of easy fortunes cannot bear illness with temper, what are the poor to do, who have none of our comforts and alleviations? The affluent, I fear, do not consider what a benefit-ticket has fallen to their lot out of millions not so fortunate; yet less do they reflect that chance, not merit, drew the prize out of the wheel.” Crabbe portrays this non-reflecting complacency in one of his metrical tales:
“Month after month was passed, and all were spent
In quiet comfort and in rich content:
Miseries there were, and woes, the world around,
But these had not her pleasant dwelling found;