On the shore of a low ebbing sea
   A sighing young jobber was seen,
Staring wishfully at an old tree,
   Which grew on the neighbouring green.
There's a tree that can finish the strife,
   And disorder that wars in my breast,
What need one be pain'd with his life,
   When a halter can purchase his rest.

Sometimes he would stamp, and look wild,
   Then roar out a terrible curse
On bubbles that had him beguil’d,
   And left ne’er a doit in his purse.
A satyr that wander’d along,
   With a laugh to his raving reply’d:
The savage maliciously sung, 
   And jok’d while the stock-jobber cry’d.

To mountains and rocks he complain'd 
   His cravat was bathed in his tears;
The Satyr drew near like a friend,
   And bid him abandon his fears.
Said he, "Have you been at the sea,
   And met with a contrary wind,
That you rail at fair Fortune so free?
   Don't blame the poor goddess, she's blind.

Come hold up thy head, foolish wight,
   I'll teach thee thy loss to retrieve;
Observe me this project aright,
   And think not of hanging but live.
Hecatissa, conceited and old,
   Affects in her airs to seem young,
Her Jointure yields plenty of gold,
   And plenty of nonsense her tongue.

Lay siege to her for a short space,
   Ne'er mind that she's wrinkled or gray;
Extol her for beauty and grace,
   And doubt not of gaining the day.
In wedlock ye fairly may join,
   And when of her wealth you are sure,
Make free of the old woman's coin,
   And purchase a sprightly young whore.