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But as for av'rice, 'tis the very devil;
The fount, alas! of ev'ry evil;
The cancer of the heart—the worst of ills:
Wherever sown, luxuriantly it thrives;
No flow'r of virtue near it thrives:
Like aconite, where'er it spreads, it kills.
In ev'ry soil behold the poison spring!
Can taint the beggar, and infect the king.

43

The mighty Marlb'rough pilfer'd cloth and bread;
So says that gentle satirist 'squire Pope;
And Peterborough's earl upon this head,
Affords us little room to hope,
That what the Twitnam bard avow'd.
Might not be readily allow'd.