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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A PHONECALL FROM FRANK O'HARA by ANNE WALDMAN SONGS FOR MY MOTHER: 3. HER WORDS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH TOM JONES by JAMES HAY BEATTIE PSALM 11. IN DOMINO CONFIDO by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE LOVE'S MELODY by BARBARA MARIE BOOTH ORA PRO NOBIS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |