Classic Poem

I.

Here , nothing to Desire, Hope, or Admire,
Is the best Means to perfect Happiness;
Since that the more Men here Admire, Require,
Their Wonder, Want, with more, will more increase:

II.

He, who less Craves, or Hopes, has less to Fear,
We with our Stores, Hopes, Cares, or Fears augment;
Then Want is Ease, less'ning Vain Hope, Fear, Care,
Since Fortune's Gifts take from us our Content:

III.

Poverty, which secures Man's Life in War,
And proves his Justice, both in War, and Peace;
Which makes him more to Hope, as more to Dare,
Becomes his Honour, more than his Disgrace:

IV.

None can be term'd more miserably Poor,
Than he, who thinks enough, he never has;
Nor can be thought Rich, who still covets more,
And is, the more he has, but less at Ease:

V.

Then his Want is, most shameful Poverty,
Which is, the least still to be satisfy'd;
Since by that, which shou'd more his Wants supply,
His Satisfaction is but more deny'd:

VI.

From Surfeits of our Superfluity,
The Pleasure, and the Taste of it, we lose;
Till Pleasure, Satisfaction does deny,
And the Support of Life, its Burthen grows:

VII.

He then, who well the Race of Life wou'd run,
More than Vain Men, wou'd for his Honour do;
Shou'd Gold, that Lumber of his Life, lay down,
Life's heavy Way, the better to go thro';

VIII.

Lest that, which his Viaticum , was meant,
Shou'd turn o'th' Road of Life, his Hinderance;
And his Advancement shou'd but more prevent,
As more, his Glory's Progress, he'd advance;

IX.

Lest, like the Horse, o'er-laden in the Mire,
He's made, by his own Provender, lie down;
And him, his Life's Provision, more shou'd tire,
Which was meant for his Aid, to help him on:

X.

Then no Man is so miserably Poor,
As the Rich Miser, who wants what he has;
Nay who, the more he has, but wants the more,
Whose Want, since his Fault, is more his Disgrace;

XI.

But Want itself its own Relief will grow,
Like Hunger, but the more it grows extreme;
Does all for Poor Men, Wealth itself can do,
Lessens their Sense of Wants, increasing them;

XII.

Since them we best by bearing undergo,
Which, as grown more, are felt by Custom less;
Our Wants then so, their own Relief may grow,
Whilst Store is Want, which Av'rice does increase;

XIII.

Then Wise and Happy sure at once is he,
Who ne'r wou'd crave Insatiate Happiness:
Whom his Ill Chance, from all Vain Hopes does free.
Till his Want, puts him by Despair, at Ease;

XIV.

Till he's above the Pow'r of Destiny,
By being for his Ease, so Low, so Poor,
That he can never fear more Misery,
Nor have less Hopes, whose Wants, Fears, can't be more;

XV.

For, by the Custom of our Want, we grow,
But much more truly satisfi'd with less;
Our Want, is both our Ease, Peace, Honour so;
Since 'tis Content, not Wealth, gives Happiness:

XVI.

And since Content's less, as our Store is more,
Which as more, does more our Desires increase;
Then sure, but as the less is still our Store,
More is our Honour, Ease, and Happiness.