Robert Pollok

Get money, money still!
And then let virtue follow, if she will.

Get money, money still!
And then let virtue follow, if she will.

Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.

Or will you think, my friend, your bus'ness done
When, of a hundred thorns, you pull out one.

On his weary couch
Fat Luxury, sick of the night's debauch,
Lay groaning, fretful at the obtrusive read more

On his weary couch
Fat Luxury, sick of the night's debauch,
Lay groaning, fretful at the obtrusive beam
That through his lattice peeped derisively.

Friend, for your epitaph I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;
One half will never be read more

Friend, for your epitaph I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;
One half will never be believed,
The other never read.

But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill.

But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill.