Classic Poem

Content thyself with thy estate,
Seek not to climb above the skies;
For often love is mixed with hate,
And 'twixt the flowers the serpent lies:
Where fortune sends her greatest joys,
There once possessed they are but toys.

What thing can earthly pleasure give
That breeds delight when it is past?
Or who so quietly doth live
But storms of cares do drown at last?
This is the law of worldly hire,
The more we have, the more desire.

Wherefore I hold him best at ease
That lives content with his estate,
And doth not sail in worldly seas
Where mine and thine do breed debate:
This noble mind, even in a clown,
Is more than to possess a crown.