Rich people only can be won
By open, barefaced flattery;
Money is flat, my worthy son,
And needs must flatly flatter’d be.
The box of incense swing with zeal
Before all worshipp’d golden calves:
In dust and mire with meekness kneel,
And, above all, ne’er praise by halves.
The price of bread this year is high,
Fine words we lavish all in vain;
Mecænas’ dog to praise, then, try,
And earn a bellyful again.