Money, thou bane of blisse, & sourse of wo,
     Whence com’st thou, that thou art so fresh and fine?
     I know thy parentage is base and low:
Man found thee poore and dirtie in a mine.

Surely thou didst so little contribute
     To this great kingdome, 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 seel 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 diggs out thee, falls in the ditch.