Classic Poem

The stately Pallace Princely plaste,
the hoorde of glyttering Golde:
The Patrimony large of landes,
cannot from sicknesse holde.
Nor can they cure the crased corps,
or deck the minde at all:
For who hath most of such a store,
the more he feares as thrall.
Golde is the Father to the Flock,
of Flatterers by lotte:
It is the summe of griefe or woe,
who hath, or hath it not.
For who it hath, he quakth in feare,
least Fortune robbe his thrifte:
Who hath it not, laments because,
he knowes not how to shifte.
Wherfore of ritch or poore I iudge,
as wisedome smale I hente:
In best estate is he, with his
that liues with minde contente.