Classic Poem

Though knowledge must be got with pain,
And seemeth bitter at the root,
It brings, at last, a matchless gain,
And yieldeth forth most pleasant fruit.
It is the richest kind of trim,
That noble persons can put on;
It reason keeps from growing dim,
It sets a lustre thereupon.
And raiseth princes, now and then,
Out of the lowest ranks of men.

But such as do this gem neglect,
Or seek it not whilst they are young,
Grow old in years without respect,
And perish in the vulgar throng.
Like brutish beasts they little know,
Save how their bellies they may fill.
When others rise they sit below,
They see no choice 'twixt good and ill;
And that which best commends their state
Is, they repent when 'tis too late.

I therefore now do sing thy praise,
And give thee thanks, thrice-blessed Lord,
That thou in these my youthful days,
The means of knowledge doth afford.
Compelled many others are
(That knowing men they might become)
To pay great sums, and travel far,
For that which I may gain at home;
Or where supplied all things are,
As well as if at home I were.

Vouchsafe me, therefore, so much grace
As to endeavour what I may;
Whilst I have leisure, means, and space,
And wits, to bear this prize away.
Be pleased, likewise, to reason so
The knowledge which I shall attain,
That puffed up I may not grow,
Nor fooled be, with science vain;
But let my chief endeavours be,
To know my self, thy will, and Thee.