English poem
Isthmia Ii, 9-18
Then the Muse was not Fond of gain, nor a laboring woman; Nor were the sweet-sounding, Soothing strains Of Terpsichore sold, With silvered front. But now she directs to observe the saying Of the Argive, coming very near the truth, Who cried, "Money, money, man," Being bereft of property and friends.