The paths of power are but the paths of care.
Nor you, ye rich! account it as a fault,
Though at their board no chosen wines are plac’d
Where the inspiring quintessence of malt,
Lulls every sorrow, every care to rest.
Can luxury’s sons in bloom, or vigour, vie
With those of industry and toil severe?
Can creams and jellies taste like yonder pye;
Or claret string the nerves like nappy beer?
Perhaps at this carousal might be found,