Classic Poem

The wicked rips Earth's bowels up to find
Treasures to fil his mind;
Layes heaps on heaps, and riches gets great store;
For all that he is poore,
Because he carries that about him which
Forbids him to be rich;
A greedy mind that ne're can be content
With that which God hath sent,
But by ungodly waies graspeth more gold
Then's hand or house wil hold.
And what he thus hath got with care and pain
He fears to lose again;
His conscience on the rack is all the while,
It wil not let him smile.
Or merry be, since many a bitter curse
Helps to fil up his purse.
And what by fraud or force he compasseth
Shal vanish with his breath,
Or if unto his heire his wealth descends,
He lavishly it spends;
Consuming in a few yeers which was not
In lesse then an age got.
Thus goods ill gather'd many times we see
The owner's ruine be.
But the condition of the godly's such,
In little he hath much.
And though that his possessions be but smal,
Yet his content is all.
He is as rich as Crassus , though but poor
'Cause he desires no more.
If to his mind his state he cannot fit,
He frames his mind to it;
And dines as wel upon a piece of bread,
As if on dainties fed;
As merry when he water drinks his fil,
As those that wine do swil;
As warm in poore John Baptist's Camel's-hair
As those that scarlet wear;
His conscience clear from sin, in peace doth rest,
And that's his daily feast.
Thus he being rich i' th' midst of povertie,
Nor fears, nor longs, to die.