CHORUS.

Broidered stuffs on high I'm heaping,

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Fashionable cloaks and sweeping

Trains, not even gold gawds keeping.

Take them all, I pray you, take them all (I do not care)

And deck your children—your daughter, if the Basket she's to bear.

Come, everyone of you, come in and take

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Of this rich hoard a share.

Nought's tied so skilfully

But you its seal can break

And plunder all you spy inside.

I've laid out all that I can spare,

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And therefore you will see

Nothing unless than I you're sharper-eyed.

If lacking corn a man should be

While his slaves clamour hungrily

And his excessive progeny,

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Then I've a handfull of grain at home which is always to be had,

And to which in fact a more-than-life-size loaf I'd gladly add.