Sinopsis

The Man is mad, and should a Keeper have, Who freights a Ship, and ventures on the Seas, With one frail interposing Plank to save From certain Death, roll'd on by ev'ry Wave: Yet Money makes him all this Toil embrace; Money with Titles stampt, and a dull Monarch's Face. When gath'ring Clouds o'ershadow all the Skies, And shoot quick Lightnings,--Weigh, my Boys, he cries, A Summer's Thunder, soon it will be past:-- Yet, hardy Fool! this Night may prove thy last: When Thou (thy Ship o'erwhelm'd with Waves) shalt be Forc'd to plunge naked in the raging Sea. Thy Teeth fast clos'd, a Purse full of dear Gold,