That Poverty’s no title to applause.
Genius or Wit, pray, who’ll admire or quote,
If all their drapery be a threadbare coat?
Who, in a world where all is bought and sold,
Minds a man’s worth—except his worth in gold?
Who’ll greet poor Merit if she lacks a dinner!
Hence, starving saint, but welcome, wealthy sinner!
Away with Poverty! let none receive her,
She bears contagion as a plague or fever;
“Bony, and gaunt, and grim”—like jaundiced eyes,