Avarice.
Money, thou bane of blisse, & source of wo,
Whence com’st thou, that thou art so fresh and fine?
I know thy parentage is base and low:
Man found thee poor and dirty in a mine.
Surely thou didst so little contribute
To this great kingdom, which thou now hast got,
That he was fain, when thou wert destitute,
To digge thee out of thy dark cave and grot:
Then forcing thee by fire he made thee bright:
Nay, thou hast got the face of man; for we
Have with our stamp and seal transferr’d our right:
Thou art the man, and man but drosse to thee.
Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich;
And while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch.
Money, thou bane of blisse, & source of wo, Whence com’st thou, that thou art so fresh and fine? I know thy parentage is base and low: Man found thee poor and dirty in a mine. Surely thou didst so little contribute To this great kingdom, which thou now hast got, That he was fain, when thou wert destitute, To digge thee out of thy dark cave and grot: Then forcing thee by fire he made thee bright: Nay, thou hast got the face of man; for we Have with our stamp and seal transferr’d our right: Thou art the man, and man but drosse to thee. Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich; And while he digs out thee, falls in the ditch.
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