Chapter 4

O the pleasures of neighbourly chat, If you can but keep scandal away, To learn what the world has been at, And what the great Orators say; Though the Wind through the crevices sing, And Hail down the chimney rebound, I'm happier than many a king While the Bellows blow Bass to the sound.

Abundance was never my lot: But out of the trifle that's given, That no curse may alight on my Cot, I'll distribute the bounty of Heaven: The fool and the slave gather wealth; But if I add nought to my store, Yet while I keep conscience in health, I've a Mine that will never grow poor.