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Avarice in some does most intensely glow,
And Gold's the brightest Deity they know.
The poor Man labours for his Bread in vain,
Whilst the stern Master, heedless of his Pain,
Keeps back the Wages of his weekly Task,
And frowns and threatens, if he's bold to ask:
The weary Slave goes home with wat'ry Eyes,
And lanquishes for Nature's due Supplies.
The Mother and her Babes together mourn,
Finding no kind Relief at his return:
They all are pinch'd, all want the dear earn'd Stock
That should suffice himself and little Flock.