That none but gilded cords your heart can bind;
Nor wit nor beauty can obtain your vow;
At Mammon’s shrine you still devoutly bow.
PHILANDER.
Vain would th’ attempts of either be to hold
My am’rous heart, without the force of gold:
Beauty an empty trifle still I deem,
A childish toy, unworthy of esteem.
Its gaudy foliage may attract the eye;
But as the tulip it will fade and die: