Thus poor in wealth, he labours to no end,
Wretched alone, in crowds without a friend;
Insensible to all that's good, or kind,
Deaf to all merit, to all beauty blind;
For love too busy, and for wit too grave,
A harden'd, sober, proud, luxurious knave,
By little actions striving to be great,
And proud to be, and to be thought a cheat.