Classic Poem

Who is't that sayes it was not love
Which you unto this match did move?
'Twas love, but—love of money, sure,
That thus to wed did you allure;
'Twas not the beauty which doth lye
In your wife's cheek, or lip, or eye,
Or any other part that shines,
Save only in her golden mines.
It were the angels in her chest
That first made love within your brest;
There sit the Cupids, there the Graces
Reside in those red and white faces.
In having one wife you have many,
Each bag a wife is, how then can ye
Chuse but be rich? for such as these
Being put to use will soon increase,
Nor will their beauty fade, for th'are
At fifty more then fifteen, fair,
As pure good mettal, as refin'd
An age hence, as when they were coin'd,
Provided you keep them in bands
From falling into huckster's hands.
If pleasure be not, profit's in
Your match; polygamy's no sin,
In a free State, you may be bold
To marry every piece of gold,
Though they so numerous be as will
The Great Turks vast Seraglio fill.
Yet take my counsel, look well to them,
For many chances will undo them;
They may be call'd by the State,
And valued at a lower rate;
They may be rounded and defaced,
Or with worse mettal be debased;
They may perhaps suffer a rape,
Be plundered from you; should they scape
These accidents, yet wings have they
Like Cupid, and will flee away,
Leaving you little else behind
But your sad choise and sadder mind:
For when your money's gone, your wife
Will stay to vex you all your life.