On a Halfpenny which a Young Lady Gave a Beggar, and which the Author Redeemed for Half-a-Crown

Dear little, pretty, favourite ore.
That once increased Gloriana's store;
That lay within her bosom blest,
Gods might have envied thee thy rest!
I've read, imperial Jove of old
For love transform'd himself to gold:
And why for a more lovely lass
May he not now have lurk'd in brass?
O, rather than from her he'd part
He'd shut that charitable heart.
That heart whose goodness nothing less
Than his vast power could dispossess.
From Gloriana's gentle touch
Thy mighty value now is such,
That thou to me art worth alone
More than his medals are to Sloane.