That thou art the cream of his flourishing rint!
As for gold, it flies off like the chaff or the stubble,
Leaving little behind but vexation and trouble.
And that mealy-fac’d silver, experience of old
Says is only too apt to take wings after gold—
In fact, I ne’er found, from the mohur to piastre,
That one kind or other went slower or faster;
Do just as you like, it seems a thing plann’d,
That one of those vagrants shall ne’er be on hand.
We well know what wonders a Penny can do,