Classic Poem

Yet Poverty, as I do take it,
Is not so Epidemical
As many in the world would make it,
Who all that want their wishes Poor do call:
For if who is not with his Divident
Amply content,
Within that acceptation fall,
Most would be poor, and peradventure all.
This would the wretched with the rich confound:
But I not him call Poor does not abound,
But him, who snar'd in Bonds, and endless strife,
The Comforts wants more than Supports of Life;
Him whose whole Age is measur'd out by fears,
And though he has wherewith to eat,
His Bread does yet
Tast of affliction, and his Cares
His purest Wine mix and allay with Tears.