In spite of all romantick Poets sing;
This Gold, my Dearest, is an useful thing:
Not that I'd have you hoard the precious Store,
For not a Wretch is like the Miser poor:
Enjoy your Fortune with a chearful Mind,
And let the Blessing spread amongst the Kind:
But if there's none but  that will do,
Write Ballads both, and you may thrive — Adieu.