Classic Poem

All my five senses, mouth, ears, nose and eyes,
And that which makes my substance sensitive,
And all my parts and all my properties,
Speak each and all, in the superlative:
“All highest Money, by the which we live,
You have prevented us in our distresses,
Now seeing the tongue imperfectly expresses
Your praises, and alone it halts and faints,
We all unite, eldest of God's princesses,
Mother of man, and sister of the saints!”

In me no appetite nor wish denies
Her sovran power to give or not to give;
To clothe or lodge, eat, drink or exercise,
Money, not Nature, is prohibitive:
Now toil, now beg, is her imperative:
A ditch to sleep in; turnips, berries, cresses,
And nuts in season; rags, wherein he dresses;
Bestial he lives who wars with her restraints,
Renouncing human use and tendernesses;
Mother of man and sister of the saints.

Grounded thou art in Customs and Excise,
And on all sorts of taxes thou dost thrive
And take the honey of each enterprise
Like the Queen Bee extracting from her hive
The sweets of toil philoprogenitive.
Good things that serve thee not yield their excesses
Of evil pounded from thy streaming presses;
Where are our Galahads and our Geraints?
They are become perverts and procuresses,
Mother of man and sister of the saints.

Prince, money gives you armour and fortresses
Secured on women's pains (such as God blesses)
For ages and enforced with harsh distraints
But, Prince, the Terror when the people guesses!
Mother of man and sister of the saints.