Classic Poem

Talk not of your dirty acres,
Arts plebeian sink the mind;
Tallow-chandlers, butchers, bakers,
Are to real glory blind.
In a tide of golden guineas,
Like Pactolus though you roll,
Trade-got wealth disease and sin is,
The yellow-jaundice of the soul.

Let not me possess a shilling
To make me rich, no riches give!
Fill my coffers; as you're filling
They shall empty like a sieve.
I, if money burns my pocket,
Perish in a glorious fire;
You keep winking in the socket,
And in smoke and stink expire.