Thy Mold's th' Semblance of that bliſsful Time,
When Want of Wealth was a reproachful Crime.
From Avarice its guilty Grandeur roſe,
And ſtill with Vice its gilded Value grows.
The wicked Magick of its fatal Charms,
Makes War of Peace, and Friendſhips riſe in Arms.
Its dire Infection, like the tainting Itch,
Spreads round th' Ambition of becoming rich.
Great is its Worth, but greater its Abuſe,
Yet Men its Service with theſe Evils chuſe.
To make it ſacred, Princes, in their Coin,
The Signs of Empire and their Image joyn:
For 'tis profane on any worthleſs thing,
To proſtitute the Arms and Figure of a King.
Thou art a Charles — He was a gen'rous Man,
But much he ſuffer'd ere his Reign began.
May that to me a Change of Fate portend!
May Days of want in Years of Plenty end!
The Image bears the Greatneſs of his Minds;
