Metrum 2.

 If with an open, bounteous hand
 (Wholly left at Mans Command)
 Fortune should in one rich flow
 As many heaps on him bestow
 Of massie gold, as there be sands
 Tost by the waves and winds rude bands,
 Or bright stars in a Winter-night
 Decking their silent Orbs with light,
 Yet would his lust know no restraints,
 Nor cease to weep in sad Complaints.
 Though heaven should his vowes reguard,
 And in a prodigall reward
 Return him all he could implore,
 Adding new honours to his store,
 Yet all were nothing. Goods in sight
 Are scorn'd, and lust in greedy flight
 Layes out for more; What measure then
 Can tame these wild desires of men?
 Since all wee give both last and first
 Doth but inflame, and feed their thirst;
For how can he be rich, who 'midst his store
Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poore.