The merchant in his fur-lined gown his purse
Doth clasp and finger lovingly; the Lord
His yield would multiply nor mind the curse
Of commons dispossessed; the knight his sword
Would ply in any cause to win his fame;
The miller with both dust and bone will eke
The corn, while for enhancement of the name
Of Family, with children's lives will seek
The dame to treat. The yeoman will covet
The fairer field; the scholar will his soul
Trade for forbidden lore. 'Tis all to get,
To hold, to keep, to clasp nor to unfold.
What value gold, or earthly fame or power?
Each grasp is loosed when comes the fatal hour.
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