From the fair Lavinian shore

1. From the fair Lavinian shore,
I your markets come to store:
Muse not, though so far I dwell,
And my wares come here to sell.
Such is the sacrèd* hunger of gold:
Then come to my pack,
While I cry
‘What d’ye lack,
What d’ye buy?
For here it is to be sold.’

2. I hāve beautȳ, honour, grace.
Fortune, favour, time and place;
And what else thou wouldst request,
E’en the thing thou lik’st the best.
First let me hāve a touch of thy gold:
Then come to me, lad,
Thou shalt hāve
What thy dad
Never gave,
For here it is to be sold.

3. Madam, for your wrinkled face,
Here’s complexion, it to grace,
Which, if your earnest be but small,
It takes away the virtue all,
But if your palms are anointed with gold,
Then you shall seem
Like a queen
Of fifteen,
Though you are threescore years old.