Your coat of arms incorporates the text:
Getting and Spending. Background, deepest gold
with two fat-cat supporters (over-sexed)
arranged on a chaise longue of banknotes (rolled).
Since Jonson staged you, as Sir Epicure,
you’ve been a byword for the godless crew
who worship at the shrine of wealth’s allure
on yachts, in castles, with your favoured few.
Caricature, perhaps; perhaps your loot
is hoarded for some good, deserving cause—
perhaps to help the voiceless poor, the mute,
or ease the strain of dictatorial laws.
Who knows? Your stereotype could be a lie.
The Thames might freeze in June. And pigs might fly.