You, or white, black or copper-head,
All your hands in your pockets put,
Or your pockets’ equivalent,
Give, altho’ you should starve for it,
Gold to help on her Jubilee.
XI.
Are then those that mutter, discontented,
That to give were little short of madness?
Trust the Prince to lighten all their purses
With a juggler pass that makes coin vanish,