‘Blow here;’ and a churchwarden blows. 50
’Tis vanish’d with conveyance neat,
And on the table smokes a treat.
She shakes the dice, the board she knocks,
And from all pockets fills her box.
A counter, in a miser’s hand, 55
Grew twenty guineas at command.
She bids his heir the sum retain,
And ’tis a counter now again.
A guinea with her touch you see