Divine poems Containing The History of Ionah. Ester. Iob. Sampson. Sions Sonets. Elegies. Written and newly augmented, by Fra: Quarles |
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Meditat. 1.
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 | Divine poems |  |
Meditat. 1.
Want is the badge of poverty: Then he
That wanteth most, is the most poore, say we.
The wretch, that hunger drives from door to door,
Aiming at present Almes, desires no more.
The toiling Swaine, that hath with pleasing trouble
Cockt a small fortune, would that fortune double,
Which dearly bought with slav'ry, then (alas)
Hee would be deem'd a Man, that's well to passe:
Which got, his mind's now tickled with an itch.
But to deserve that glorious stile of Rich.
That done, h'enjoyes the crowne of all his labour,
Could he but once out-nose his right-hand-neighbour
Lives he at quiet now? Now, he begins
To wish that Vs'ry were the least of sinnes:
But great, or small, he tries, and sweet's the trouble
And for its sake, he wishes all things double,
Thus wishing still, his wishes never cease,
But as his Wealth, his Wishes still encrease.
That wanteth most, is the most poore, say we.
The wretch, that hunger drives from door to door,
Aiming at present Almes, desires no more.
The toiling Swaine, that hath with pleasing trouble
Cockt a small fortune, would that fortune double,
Which dearly bought with slav'ry, then (alas)
Hee would be deem'd a Man, that's well to passe:
Which got, his mind's now tickled with an itch.
But to deserve that glorious stile of Rich.
That done, h'enjoyes the crowne of all his labour,
Could he but once out-nose his right-hand-neighbour
Lives he at quiet now? Now, he begins
To wish that Vs'ry were the least of sinnes:
But great, or small, he tries, and sweet's the trouble
And for its sake, he wishes all things double,
Thus wishing still, his wishes never cease,
But as his Wealth, his Wishes still encrease.
Wishes proceed from want: The richest then,
Most wishing, want most, and are poorest men:
If he be poore, that wanteth much, how poore
Is he, that hath too much, and yet wants more?
Thrice happy he, to whom the bounty of heaven,
Sufficient, with a sparing hand, hath given:
'Tis Grace, not Gold, makes great; sever but which,
The Rich man is but poore, the Poore man rich.
The fairest Crop, of either Grasse, or Graine,
Is not for use, undew'd with timely raine.
The wealth of Crœsus, were it to be given,
Were not thank-worthy, if unblest by Heaven.
Most wishing, want most, and are poorest men:
178
Is he, that hath too much, and yet wants more?
Thrice happy he, to whom the bounty of heaven,
Sufficient, with a sparing hand, hath given:
'Tis Grace, not Gold, makes great; sever but which,
The Rich man is but poore, the Poore man rich.
The fairest Crop, of either Grasse, or Graine,
Is not for use, undew'd with timely raine.
The wealth of Crœsus, were it to be given,
Were not thank-worthy, if unblest by Heaven.
Even as faire Phæbe, in Diameter,
(Earth interpos'd betwixt the Sunne and her)
Suffers Eclips, and is disrobed quite
(During the time) of all her borrowed Light;
So Riches, which fond Mortals so embrace,
If not enlightned with the Beames of Grace,
B'ing interposed with too grosse a Care,
They lye obscured; and no riches are.
(Earth interpos'd betwixt the Sunne and her)
Suffers Eclips, and is disrobed quite
(During the time) of all her borrowed Light;
So Riches, which fond Mortals so embrace,
If not enlightned with the Beames of Grace,
B'ing interposed with too grosse a Care,
They lye obscured; and no riches are.
My stint of Wealth lyes not in my expressing,
With Iacobs Store (Lord) give me Iacobs Blessing;
Or if, at night, thou grant me Lazars Boone,
Let Dives Dogs licks all my sores at noone.
Lord, pare my wealth, by my Capacity,
Lest I, with it, or it suit not with mee.
This humbly doe I sue for, at thy hand,
Enough, and not too much, for my command.
Lord, what thou lend'st, shall serve but in the place
Of reckoning Counters, to summe up thy Grace.
With Iacobs Store (Lord) give me Iacobs Blessing;
Or if, at night, thou grant me Lazars Boone,
Let Dives Dogs licks all my sores at noone.
Lord, pare my wealth, by my Capacity,
Lest I, with it, or it suit not with mee.
This humbly doe I sue for, at thy hand,
Enough, and not too much, for my command.
Lord, what thou lend'st, shall serve but in the place
Of reckoning Counters, to summe up thy Grace.
| Divine poems | |