From the far 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 sacred hunger for gold.
Then come to my pack,
While I cry
"What d'ye lack,
What d'ye buy?
For here it is to be sold."

I have beauty, honour, grace,
Fortune, favour, time, and place,
And what else thou would'st request,
E'en the thing thou likest best;
First, let me have but a touch of your gold.
Then, come to me, lad,
Thou shalt have
What thy dad
Never gave;
For here it is to be sold.

Madam, come, see what you lack,
I've complexions in my pack;
White and red you may have in this place,
To hide your old and wrinkled face.
First, let me have but a touch of your gold,
Then you shall seem
Like a girl of fifteen,
Although you be threescore and ten years old.