For arts like these preferr’d, admired, caress’d,
  They first invade your table, then your breast;
  Explore your secrets with insidious art,
  Watch the weak hour, and ransack all the heart;
  Then soon your ill-placed confidence repay,
  Commence your lords, and govern or betray.

   By numbers here from shame and censure free,
  All crimes are safe, but hated poverty. 
  This, only this, the rigid law pursues, 160
  This, only this, provokes the snarling Muse;
  The sober trader, at a tatter’d cloak,
  Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke;
  With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze,
  And turn the various taunt a thousand ways. 
  Of all the griefs that harass the distress’d,
  Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest;
  Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart,
  Than when a blockhead’s insult points the dart.

   Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, 170
  No pathless waste or undiscover’d shore;
  No secret island in the boundless main;
  No peaceful desert yet unclaim’d by Spain?[5]
  Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,
  And bear Oppression’s insolence no more. 
  This mournful truth is every where confess’d,
  SLOW RISES WORTH, BY POVERTY DEPRESS’D: 
  But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,
  Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold;
  Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implored, 180
  The groom retails the favours of his lord.

   But hark! the affrighted crowd’s tumultuous cries
  Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies: 
  Raised from some pleasing dream of wealth and power,
  Some pompous palace, or some blissful bower,
  Aghast you start, and scarce with aching sight
  Sustain the approaching fire’s tremendous light;
  Swift from pursuing horrors take your way,
  And leave your little ALL to flames a prey;
  Then through the world a wretched vagrant roam, 190
  For where can starving merit find a home? 
  In vain your mournful narrative disclose,
  While all neglect, and most insult your woes. 
  Should Heaven’s just bolts Orgilio’s wealth confound,
  And spread his flaming palace on the ground,
  Swift o’er the land the dismal rumour flies,
  And public mournings pacify the skies;
  The laureate tribe in venal verse relate,
  How Virtue wars with persecuting Fate;
  With well-feign’d gratitude the pension’d band 200
  Refund the plunder of the beggar’d land. 
  See! while he builds, the gaudy vassals come,
  And crowd with sudden wealth the rising dome;
  The price of boroughs and of souls restore,
  And raise his treasures higher than before: 
  Now bless’d with all the baubles of the great,
  The polish’d marble, and the shining plate,
  Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire,
  And hopes from angry Heaven another fire.