- Will in huge flinty masses chrystalize,
- Which forceful fingers scarce can crumble down;
- And which with its melasses ne’er will part:
- Yet this, fast-dripping in nectarious drops,
- Not only betters what remains, but when [440]
- With art fermented, yields a noble wine,1
- Than which nor Gallia, nor the Indian clime,
- Where rolls the Ganges,2 can a nobler show.
- So misers in their coffers lock that gold;
- Which, if allowed at liberty to roam, [445]
-
Would better them, and benefit mankind.
- IN the last coppers, when the embrowning wave
- With sudden fury swells; some grease immix’d,
- The foaming tumult sudden will compose,
- And force to union the divided grain. [450]
- So when two swarms in airy battle join,
- The winged heroes heap the bloody field;
- Until some dust, thrown upward in the sky,
-
Quell the wild conflict, and sweet peace restore.
- FALSE Gallia’s sons, that hoe the ocean-isles, [455]
- Mix with their Sugar, loads of worthless sand,