English poem
BALLAD. (Curs'd be the sordid wretch of yore)
by Anonymous
Curs'd be the sordid wretch of yore, Who from the bowels of the earth First drew crude heaps of shining ore, Stamp'd the rude mass, and gave it worth:
Ere yet distinctions and degrees In lovers' wishes bore a part, Truly to love was then to please, And heart was made the price of heart:
Henceforth ye lovers nothing hope, Your fire is dead, your ardour cold; Love has no influence, power, or scope, But that which it derives from gold.
Long may ye languish, long expect, Vows lavish—wishes, sighs employ, A brittle temple to erect, Which gold can in an hour destroy.
More by Anonymous
- BALLAD. (Come, courage lads, and drink away)
- BALLAD. (Come, every man now give his toast)
- BALLAD. (Cotchelin sat all alone)
- BALLAD. (Crown me Bacchus, mighty god)
- BALLAD. (Curtis was old Hodges wife)
- BALLAD. (Dapper Ted Tattoo is my natty name)
- BALLAD. (Dear John prithee tell me, cried Ruth)
- BALLAD. (Dear Yanko say, and true he say)