Classic Poem

A desperate wight, his fortunes foule to free,
(By wilfull death) to rid his cares did choose,
But as he trudgd, to totter on a tree,
Untimely there his loathed life to loose,
(A rare good hap) a pot of golde he found.
The gold hee rapt, his rope hee left behind:
Anon a carle came sneaking through the ground,
In steede of gold a rope who there did finde;
Which haplesse sight so nipt him at the hart,
That loe! for woe hee pissed where hee stoode.
At length (quoth hee) this cord shall cure my smart,
And so hee hung himselfe in sullen moode.
The sight were fayre, if every bough did beare
Such kinde of fruites, till caren churles were choakt,
Whose deathes inforce a thousand well to fare,
Their lives the poore a many wayes hath yoakt.
The wormes rejoyce upon a churle to gnawe,
The poore man then, whom hee did pinch of yore,
Hath pennie dole and meate to fill his mawe;
Where scarcitie was, forthwith appeareth store.
Pray for his soule, the common people crie,
As for his life, the world full well may spare:
His hordes of gold about the house then flie,
Catch who catch may, his goods a hundred share.
His heapes of corne to every market sailes,
Which close hee kept in hope of some deare yeare,
And where hee sparde the parings of his nailes,
His sonne may spend and make his friends good cheare.
If such increase comes by a carrens death,
Who would not wish a cord to stop his breath?