Book IV, 95: On LVCRO

Lvcro, how poor thy Tyrant-wealth has made thee!
How miserable poore! It has betrayd thee
To thy owne seeming selfe; And it is growne
As little, thine, or lesse then thou, thy owne:
Alas, poore Lucro, how thy fruitfull pawnes
Abuse thy Stomacke, that so often yawnes.
For a good Morsell, whilst thy Saint does rome,
Like a Dcoy, t'entice evill Angels home,
Whose more imperious presence must controule
And fright the peace of thy perplexed Soule!
Lucro, be slave no longer to thy pelse;
Sub due thy Gold, and make thy selfe, thy selfe:
But if thy Saint be growne too strong for thee,
He tell thee Lucro; Turne thy Saint to me.