Classic Poem

A knave's a knave, tho' ne'er so brave,
Tho' diamonds round him shine;
What tho' he's great, takes mighty state,
And thinks himself divine;
His ill-got wealth can't give him health,
Or future ill prevent.
An honest tarr is richer far
If he enjoys content.

A soul sincere scorns fraud or fear,
Within itself secure.
For vice will blast, but virtue last
While truth and time endure.
Blow high, blow low, from fate or foe
He scorns to tack about.
But to his trust is strictly just,
And nobly stems it out.