That merit often to th’unworthy gives,
When he in peace might his quietus make
On a poor farm. Who would long parchments write,
And scrawl and pause amidst a heap of nonsense?
But that the dread of ghastly poverty,
Whose horrid visage, like the Gorgon’s head,
No mortal dares behold, startles the mind
And makes us rather choose those ills we have
Than suffer others that we dread far worse.
Thus avarice makes rascals of us all,