Wou'd you think it, my Duck! (for the fault I must own),

Your Jenny, at last, is quite covetous grown;

Her millions if fortune would lavishly pour,

I still should be wretched, if I had not more.

As gay as I am, could I spend half my days

In dances, and op’ras, ridottoes and plays,

Her fate your poor Jenny with tears wou'd deplore,

For, alas, my dear girl, what are these without more?

'Tis the same thing with pleasure, with money, with men,

And I think I shall never be happy again;

I’ve lovers, and danglers, and praters good store,

And yet, like true woman, I still sigh for more.

Mamma she cries, Jenny, why all this ado?

You may have a husband, you know child, or two:

But I pouted, and whimper’d, and fretted, and swore,

That I would not have one, unless I had more.

The giant, poor devil, has just now been here,

And has offer’d to settle eight hundred a year;

But I answer’d the wretch, as I once did before,

You know it won't do, Sir; for I must have more.

Tho' the fool I despise, should bespatter my fame,

Yet I think I’m as wise as some folks I could name;

I but worship that idol, which others adore,

For those that have thousands, would gladly have more.

Now in spite of this craving, I vow and protest,

That avarice ne’er had a place in my breast;

For I swear I’d not envy the miser his store,

Had I but enough for myself, and one more.

You will wonder, my girl, who this dear one can be,

Whose merit can boast such a conquest as me;

But you shan’t know his name, tho’ I told you before,

It begins with an M, but I dare not say More.