DEAR little, pretty, fav'rite ore,
That once increas'd Gloriana's store;
That lay within her bosom bless'd,
Gods might have envied thee thy nest.
I've read, imperial Jove of old
For love transform'd himself to gold:
And why, for a more lovely lass,
May he not now have lurk'd in brass?
Oh! rather than from her he'd part,
He'd shut that charitable heart,
That heart whose goodness nothing less
Than his vast pow'r could dispossess.
From Gloriana's gentle touch
Thy mighty value now is such,
That thou to me art worth alone
More than his medals are to Sloan.
Not for the silver and the gold
Which Corinth lost should'st thou be sold:
Not for the envied mighty mass
Which misers wish, or M—h has:
Not for what India sends to Spain,
Nor all the riches of the Main.
While I possess thy little store,
Let no man call, or think, me poor;
Thee, while alive, my breast shall have,
My hand shall grasp thee in the grave:
Nor shalt thou be to Peter giv'n,
Tho' he should keep me out of heav'n