Where vice is virtue, thou art still despised,
O, petty loathsome love of hoarded pelf,
Ev'n in the pit where all things vile are prized,
Still is there found in Lucifer himself
Spirit enough to hate thee, sordid thing:
Thank Heav'n! I own in thee nor lot nor part;
And though to many a sin and folly cling
The worse weak fibres of my weedy heart,
Yet to thy withered lips and snake-like eye
My warmest welcome is, Depart, depart!
For to my sense so foul and base thou art
I would not stoop to thee to reach the sky:
Aroint thee, filching hand, and heart of stone!
Be this thy doom, with conscience left alone,
Learn how like death thou art, unsated selfish one.