Now, Madam, as the Chat goes round,
I hear you have ten thousand Pound:
But that I as a Trifle hold,
Give me your Person, dem your Gold;
Yet for your own Sake 'tis secur'd,
I hope — your Houses too ensur'd,
I'd have you take a special Care,
And of false Mortgages beware;
You've Wealth enough 'tis true, but yet
You want a Friend to manage it.
Now such a Friend you soon might have,
By fixing on your humble Slave;
Not that I mind a stately House,
Or value Mony of a Louse;
But your Five hundred Pounds a Year,
I wou'd secure it for my Dear:
Then smile upon your Slave, that lies
Half murder'd by your radiant Eyes;
Or else this very Moment dies —