A Ballad of Choosing in White Stains by Aleister Crowley.

“Wealth brought to me a purse, whose glancing gold
Mocked the sun’s rays, grown dull as iron rust,
And pressed it in my hand, saying ‘Behold
The corner-stone of fame, the means of lust’
And I ‘In thee I put but little trust
Shameful, most vile, accursed of God’s ire,
Dross of the dunghill’s most detested dust,
Thou has a guerdon, is it not for hire?'” [via]