Mine she’s adored: her gifts resign’d
Soon as her rapid pinions sound,
Meek dow’rless poverty, more kind,
I woo, whilst virtue wraps me round.
VIII.
’Tis not for me, when, strain’d and weak,
The labouring mast is heard to creak,
To fall to wretched trading prayers,
Lest Cyprian or lest Tyrian wares
With rarest spoils, unwonted gain,