Our cunning South Sea, like a God,
Turns nothing into all things.
What need have we of Indian Wealth,
Or Commerce with our Neighbours,
Our Constitution is in Health,
And Riches crown our Labours:
Our South Sea Ships have golden Shrouds
They bring us Wealth, ‘tis granted,
But lodge their Treasure in the clouds,
To hide it ‘till it’s wanted.