Page:Romance of the Rose (Ellis), volume 1.pdf/220

186

Most rare and wondrous, fashioned wings

For Icarus, as Ovid sings,

To pass the sea, so merrily

Do free hearts make Pecunia fly.

And they would kill themselves, God wot!

Unless through her some joy they got.

Great souls know not the hideous vice

Of sordid, grasping avarice.

But ever love, with largess grand

And free, to sound from land to land

Their noble deeds, their proud success,

Their valour, might, and gentleness;

For unto God a generous heart

Is grateful, but nor lot nor part

Hath Avarice with him; like to a foul

Rank stench he hates a niggard soul;

For when he made the world, with wealth

He plenished it for joy and health

Of man, and therefore loveth he

Freehanded generosity.

But pinching, stinting, griping curs

God damns with vile idolaters,

Poor caitiff hounds, insatiable,

Extortionate and miserable,

Who rove the world with whining cry.

That riches only set they by

That they may have, when cometh age,

Sufficing food and harbourage.

But say, sweet Riches, are ye then

So soft of heart ye love the men