He that to do is fortunate,
The darling minions of his fate!
To morrow feels his fate's displeasure,
Spoil'd his hoarded idol treasure!
And like this man, his emblem shows,
A sudden revolution knows.
His fortune grows profoundly scurvy
Turns the poor earthworms topsy turvy,
Becomes the tennis ball of fools,
Things quite form'd out of nature's rules.