Whilst farther aft, in best of hope,
A group[10] seem pompous o’er their gain;
They saffron liquid freely tope,
And whisk the bottles in the main.
The miser counts his money o’er,
Then locks again his little trunk:
The spendthrift, as the day before,
Flies to the bottle and gets drunk.
Here, there is one hums out a tune;
And there, another fain would sleep: