Classic Poem

Money, money, now hay goode day!
Money, where haste thou be?
Money, money, thou goste away
And wilt not bide with me.

Above all thing thou arte a king
And rulest the world over all;
Who lakethe thee, all joy, parde,
Will sone then frome him fall.

In every place thou makeste solas,
Gret joye, sporte, and welfare;
When money is gone, comforte is none,
But thought, sorowe, and care.

In kinges corte, wher money dothe route,
It maketh the galandes to jet,
And for to were gorgeouse ther gere,
Ther cappes awry to set.

In the heyweyes ther joly palfreys
It maketh to lepe and praunce;
It maketh justinges, pleys, disguisinges,
Ladys to singe and daunce.

For he that alway wanteth money
Stondeth a mated chere,
Can never well sing, long daunce nor springe,
Nor make no lusty chere.

At cardes and dice it bereth the price
As king and emperoure;
At tables, tennes, and all othere games
Money hathe ever the floure.

Withe squier and knight and every wighte
Money maketh men faine
And causeth many in sume compeney
Their felowes to disdaine.

In marchandise who can devise
So good a ware, I say?
At all times the best ware is
Ever redy money.

Money to incresse, marchandes never to cease
With many a sotell wile,
Men say they wolde for silver and golde
Ther owne faders begile.

Women, I trowe, love money also,
To by them joly gere,
For that helpethe and oft causethe
Women to loke full faire.

In Westminster Hall the criers call;
The sergeauntes plede apace;
Attorneys appere, now here, now ther,
Renning in every place.

Whatesoever he be, and if that he
Wante money to plede the lawe,
Do what he can, in his matter than
Shalle prove not worthe a strawe.

I know it not, but well I wotte
I have harde oftentimes tell,
Prestes use this guise, ther benefice
For moieny to bey and sell.

Craftesmen, that be in every citee,
They worke and never blinne;
Sume cutte, sume shave, sume knoke, sum grave,
Only money to winne.

The plowman himselfe dothe digge and delve
In storme, snowe, frost, and raine,
Money to get with laboure and swete;
Yet small geines and muche paine.

And sume for money lie by the wey
Another mannes purse to get,
But they that long use it amonge
Ben hanged by the neke.

The beggers eke in every strete
Lie walowing by the wey;
They begge, they crie, oft they cume by,
And all is but for money.

In every coste men love it moste,
In Inglonde, Spaine, and France,
For every man lacking it than
Is clene oute of countenaunce.

Of whate degree soever he be,
Or vertuouse conning he have,
And wante money, yet men will sey
That he is but a knave.

Where indede, so God me spede,
Sey all men whate they can,
It is allwayes sene nowadayes
That money makethe the man.