Classic Poem

Minde well all this, nor let it fly thy powrs,
To knowe what fits, the white springs earely flowrs;
Nor when raines timely fall; Nor when sharp colde
In winters wrath, doth men from worke withholde
Sit by smiths forges, nor warme tavernes hant;
Nor let the bitterest of the season dant
Thy thrift-arm'd paines, like idle Povertie ;
For then the time is when th'industrious Thie
Upholdes, with all increase, his Familie.
With whose rich hardnes spirited, do thou,
Poore Delicacie flie; lest frost and snowe,
Fled for her love; Hunger sit both them out,
And make thee, with the beggers lazie gout,
Sit stooping to the paine, still pointing too't,
And with a leane hand, stroke a foggie foot.
The slothfull man, expecting many things,
With his vaine hope, that cannot stretch her wings
Past need of necessaries for his kinde,
Turnes like a whirle-pit over, in his minde
All meanes that Rapine prompts to th'idle Hinde;
Sits in the taverne; and findes meanes to spend
Ill got; and ever, doth to worse contend.