Classic Poem

" Would heaven I were a millionaire," you cried,
Ere yet for knighthood you were qualified;
" Well would I lodge and sumptuously fare."
Then gaily laughed the Gods and heard your prayer.
Yet is your raiment shabbier than before,
Your shoes more patched and clouted than of yore,
Ten wretched olives serve you for a feast,
And out of these you save the half at least,
Two meals from every dish you try to squeeze,
And drink Veientan to its muddy lees,
Two pence a day is all that you expend,
One on cold pulse, one on your lady friend.
Live decently henceforth, you cheating knave,
Or else return to heaven the wealth it gave.