Ah! then what ſhall my Pockets freſh recruit,
To pay for Lodgings, and an half worn Suit,
Keep me from Goal, be Drink of ev'ry Sort,
A Slice of Beef, ſometimes———a Pint of Port.
(Miſers may quaff the foul inſipid Beer,
Nectar alone a Poet's Soul can cheer.)
Like Hercules, by an immortal Toil,
Give that rude Monſter Poverty the Foil,
And (if the Fates ſhould diſregard my Pray’rs)
Afford a Pipe, at leaſt, to whiff away my Cares.
But now 'tis time that I begin to ſave,
For Wine to Silver is a liquid Grave.
And when no Gold a Poet's Pocket lines,
'Tis criminal to taſte the Juice of Vines.
All Money chang'd, the leſs by changing grows,
And throʻ our Hands with ſilent waſtings flows,
Like Mercury, when pour'd upon the Floor,
Each Stroke divides and multiplies the Store.
This thing and that we reckon due Expence,
