He thinks the charm consists in dress,
Pomatum, powder, linens white,
Wash-balls, perfumes, and mirrors bright.
The Miser hopes his joys to hold,
Fast lock’d within his bags of gold:
Thieves, moth and rust, corrupt his rest;
May all his sorrows be your jest.
The plodding sage long years has spent
In searching for the gem content,
Which often does, I know not why,