When Hercules, for matchless worth,
Was taken up to heav’n from earth,
As in their turns to all the crowd
Of gratulating gods he bow’d,
When Plutus, Fortune’s son, he spies,
He from his face averts his eyes.
Jove ask’d the cause of this disgust:
“I hate him, as he is unjust,
To wicked men the most inclined,
And grand corrupter of mankind.”