Classic Poem

If justly we the Wretch accuse,
Who, curst with Avarice,
Dares not his own large Treasures use,
Thy Virtue then is Vice.

Thou such a guilty Niggard art,
Nor Love wilt give, nor pay;
That mak'st me lose, my Due, thy Heart,
Tho' mine you take away.

To Honour thus too nicely true,
Ungrateful still you are;
No Love repaying where 'tis due,
Tho' you no Debtor sparey.

That Honour, you so ill maintain,
To forfeit you deserve;
Whilst your own Pleasures you restrain,
And all your Lovers starve.

Misers can, dying, make Amends
To those they leave behind;
You cannot so oblige your Friends,
Then, whilst you live, be kind.

To Nature be not thus unkind,
Thy Beauty's Stores employ;
Thou'lt curse thy unconsenting Mind,
When thou art past the Joy.

For Beauty kept, like Gold, too long,
Becomes its Keeper's Pain;
Who of the Bliss her self does wrong,
Which That was giv'n to gain.