Nor light them soon nor burn them low,
And part upon the Cook bestow;
No wretch alive would be that despot,
To go to rob the woman's grease-pot!
Though some may say you rob their pockets,
By what is wasted in the sockets:
A plague on all such meanness! scout it,
And never vex your sconce about it.
The noblest task in all your line,
Is bottling off a Pipe of Wine;