The rich poor fool, confounded with surprise, Starving in all his various plenty lies; Sick of his wish, he now detests the power, For which he ask’d so earnestly before; Amid his gold with pinching famine cursed, And justly tortured with an equal thirst: At last, his shining arms to heaven he rears, And, in distress, for refuge flies to prayers. “Oh, Father Bacchus, I have sinn’d,” he cried, “And foolishly thy gracious gift applied; Thy pity now, repenting, I implore, Oh may I feel the golden plague no more!”