If true love is for sale then what’s the cost

Where grotesque men seem pardoned by the purse—

And when love’s purchased, is sweet virtue lost,

Is female vanity now deemed the worse?

How oft upon the street our eyes do greet

A radiant blossom on a rich lapel,

Such florets worn by paupers seldom seen—

Lest angels fall from heaven, or rise from hell.

Perhaps the glint of gold makes women blind

To all the faults that moneyed men possess,

Or is it merely that staunch hearts wax kind

To Midas forms sweet Venus failed to bless?

Where in pure love should lucre play a part,

Save bargain blush to paint a paper heart.