Let the worlds slave his comfort have,
And hug his hoards of treasure,
Till he and his wish meet both in a dish,
So dies a miser in pleasure.
’Tis not a fat farm our wishes can charm,
We scorn this greedy conjecture;
’Tis a health to our friend, to whom we commend
This cup of Apollo’s Nectar.
The Pipe and the Pot, are our common shot,
Wherewith we keep a quarter;