"Let wrath divine," thus Gripe in transport cries,
"Curse every limb, and quench my blasted eyes,
" If still harmonious sounds mine ears may drink,
"While in yon chest my counted guineas chink,
" And still my palsied hands have power to hold,
"Close to my heart, this bag of darling gold!
" What! shall I fear, indignant Heaven to see
"Its magazine of plagues exhaust on me?
" What! shall I mourn the bargain made, if wealth
"I buy with loss of fame, and loss of health?
" No, still with glad content my heart shall beat,
"Though tortures rack my hands, my eyes, my feet,
" If hoards of gold my bursting coffers fill,
"Gold, which can soothe each pang, each fear can still,
" Comfort for every care, and balm for every ill!