Whose Midas touch can gild his asses' ears,
And load a knave with folly's rich arrears.
And lo! a second miracle is thine,
For sloe-juice water stands transform'd to wine.
Where Day and Martin's patent blacking roll'd
Burst from the vase Pactolian streams of gold;
Laugh the sly wizards, glorying in their stealth
Quit the black art, and loll in lazy wealth.
See Britain's Algerines, the lottery fry,