She with keen satire lashes all around,
And with the rest her husband feels the wound.
Should poverty, by sudden threats alarm,
Can wit with all its power now prove a charm?
The fairest flowers Parnassus ere could boast,
Yield to the treasures of the golden coast.
The maid who comes fraught with that precious ore,
Brings virtue, wit, and beauty all in store;
This gives the palid cheek a crimson glow,
The tawny skin the tincture of the snow.