For treasures better hid. Soon had his crew

Opened into the hill a spacious wound,

And digged out ribs of gold. Let none admire

That riches grow in Hell; that soil may best

Deserve the precious bane.

Miss Kilmansegg: Her Moral

By Thomas Hood

(See pages [59], [171])

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!

Bright and yellow, hard and cold,