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 Are curiosities, as closely eyed, Whene'er I get them, as a stone would be, Toss'd from the moon on Doctor Mitchill's table, Or classic brickbat from the tower of Babel.

But he I sing of well has known and felt That money hath a power and a dominion; For when in Chatham-street the good man dwelt, No one would give a sous for his opinion. And though his neighbours were extremely civil, Yet, on the whole, they thought him—a poor devil.

A decent kind of person; one whose head Was not of brains particularly full; It was not known that he had ever said Any thing worth repeating—'twas a dull, Good, honest man—what Paulding's muse would call A "cabbage head"—but he excelled them all

In that most noble of the sciences, The art of making money; and he found The zeal for quizzing him grew less and less, As he grew richer; till upon the ground Of Pearl Street, treading proudly in the might And majesty of wealth, a sudden light