Wealth by the brave is justly scorn'd,
Since men are from the truth suborn'd,
And a full chest perverts their ways
From giving or deserving praise.
When Hercules, for matchless worth,
Was taken up to heav'n from earth,
As in their turns to all the crowd
Of gratulating gods he bow'd,
When Plutus, Fortune's son, he spies,
He from his face averts his eyes.
Jove ask'd the cause of this disgust:
"I hate him, as he is unjust,
To wicked men the most inclined,
And grand corrupter of mankind."