In every sorrowing soul I pour'd delight, And poverty stood smiling in my sight.

It never was our guise To slight the poor, or aught humane despise.

By Jove the stranger and the poor are sent, And what to those we give, to Jove is lent.

Urge him with truth to frame his fair replies; And sure he will; for wisdom never lies.

Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.

Having well polished the whole bow, he added a golden tip.