Classic Poem

XVII

We call that Sickness, which is Health,
 That Persecution, which is Grace;
That Poverty, which is true Wealth,
 And that Dishonour, which is Praise.

XVIII

Providence watches over all,
 And that with an impartial Eye,
And if to Misery we fall,
 'Tis through our own Infirmity.

XIX

'Tis want of foresight makes the bold
 Ambitious Youth to danger climb,
And want of Vertue, when the old
 At Persecution do repine.

XX

Alas, our Time is here so short,
 That in what state soe're 'tis spent,
Of Joy or Wo does not import,
 Provided it be innocent.

XXI

But we may make it pleasant too,
 If we will take our Measures right,
And not what Heav'n has done, undo
 By an unruly Appetite.

XXII

'Tis Contentation that alone
 Can make us happy here below,
And when this little Life is gone,
 Will lift us up to Heav'n too.

XXIII

A very little satisfies
 An honest, and a grateful heart,
And who would more than will suffice,
 Does covet more than is his part.

XXIV

That man is happy in his share,
 Who is warm clad, and cleanly fed,
Whose Necessaries bound his Care,
 And honest Labour makes his Bed.