For they be maryd unto the vyle treasour
And precious bagges, but nat for godly pleasour
They haue no hope of children nor lynage
Loue is there none, and durynge theyr wretchyd lyfe
Is nat one day in suche mad maryage
Auoyde of brawlynge, of hatered and of stryfe
But that pore man that weddeth a ryche wyfe
Cast in his nose shall styll hir bagges fynde
For whose cause he made was made and blynde
They that ar weddyd nat for loue but rychesse