Classic Poem

I'le hope no more,
For things that will not come;
And, if they do, they prove but cumbersome;
Wealth brings much woe:
And, since it fortunes so;
'Tis better to be poore,
Then so t'abound,
As to be drown'd,
Or overwhelm'd with store.


Pale care, avant,
I'le learn to be content
With that small stock, Thy Bounty gave or lent.
What may conduce
To my most healthfull use,
Almighty God me grant;
But that, or this,
That hurtfull is,
Denie Thy suppliant.