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Poems, and phancies

written By the Thrice Noble, Illustrious, And Excellent Princess The Lady Marchioness of Newcastle [i.e. Margaret Cavendish]. The Second Impression, much Altered and Corrected

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Of Poverty.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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Of Poverty.

My Dwelling is a low Thatcht House, my Cell
'S not big enough for Pride's great Heart to dwell;
My Rooms are not of Stately Cedars built,
No Marble Chimney-piece, no Wainscot Gilt;
No Statues Cut, or Carv'd, or Cast in Brass,
Which had they Life, would Nature's Art surpass;
No Painted Pictures which Apelles drew,
There's nothing else but Lime and Hair to View;
No Agath-Table with a Tortoise frame,
Nor Stools stuft with Birds feathers, Wild or Tame;
But a Stump of an Old decayed Tree,
And Stools that have three Leggs, and half Lame be,
Cut with a Hatchet from some broken Boughs;
And this is all which Poverty allows:
Yet is it free from Cares, no Thieves doth fear,
The Door is Open, all are Welcome there;
Not like the Rich, who Guests do entertain
With Cruelty, when Birds and Beasts are Slain,
Who Oyl their Bodies with their melted Grease,
And by their Flesh their Bodies Fat increase:

117

We need no Cook, nor Skil to Dress our meat;
For Nature Dresses most of what we Eat;
As Roots and Herbs, not such as Art doth sow,
But which in Fields do Naturally grow:
Our wooden Cups we from the Spring do fill,
VVhich is the VVine-press of great Nature still;
Rich men, when they for to delight their Taste,
Suck out the Juice from th'Earth, her Strength they waste;
For bearing oft she'l grow so Lean and Bare,
That like a Sceleton she will appear;
Into their Drink the subtile Spirits they
From Barley and the Full-ripe Grape convey:
Thus by their Luxury their Life they waste,
And their Delight is still to please their Taste;
This heats the Mind with an ambitious Fire;
None Happy is, but in a Low desire;
Their Longings do run out, and fix no where;
For what they have, or can have, nought they Care,
But Long for what they have not, this th'admire,
Oft Sick for want; so Restless is Desire.
VVhen we from Labours come, we quiet Sleep,
No restless Thoughts our Sense awake doth keep;
All's still and silent in our House and Mind,
Our Thoughts are chearfull and our Hearts are kind;
And Life, although 't in Motion still does dwell,
Yet Rest in Life a Poor man Loveth well.