Classic Poem

The Miser is, ev'n in his Thrift, most vain,
Who loses all he has, but more to gain;
Who, by his Wealth's Increase, does rob himself,
Whose Avarice increases with his Pelf;
In Pain for that, by which he seeks his Ease,
Makes that his Trouble, which shou'd buy his Peace;
Loses his Wealth, by keeping up his Store,
So still, has but the less, as he has more,
By Plenty's made most miserably Poor;
Is, but by his Increase of Wealth, undone;
Who, but for keeping all, has Use of none;
So sensless, saving, craving Avarice,
Its Satisfaction, to itself denies,
Which makes Man's Wealth, as more, him less suffice;
Whilst most Sins else, their Satisfaction have,
In the Possession of those Things they crave;
Revenge, Ambition, Vanity, Lust, Pride,
And Gluttony, can all be satisfy'd,
When they are, with those Things they seek, supply'd;
But Avarice, that Wolf, of Greedy Minds,
Itself less satisfy'd, for Cramming, finds;
Not to be Covetous, is to be Rich,
Gain of Content, is sure the highest Pitch
Th' Aspirer seeks, or best Establishment,
The Hoarder craves, which Av'rice does prevent;
Since Man's Desires, still with his Gains increase,
Which make, as more, his Satisfaction less,
Till his Good Luck, turns his Unhappiness;
So Gold, the Common Mistress, (still we see)
Like other shining, tempting Jilts, will be,
Instead of the Fop's Credit, his Dishonour,
Who too close keeps her, too much doats upon her;
In being kept, or left, by her Fond Man,
Is equally his Trouble, or his Pain;
Thus is, in being kept up, or let go,
Its Lover's Joy, and his Displeasure too;
Of his Ambition, his Dishonour grows,
Till his Gain is his Reputation's Loss;
So you, Vain Miser! are extravagant,
In wanting what you have, for Fear of Want;
For Fear of being Ruin'd, are Undone,
Are, out of Love to your own Money, grown
So saving, that you leave your own self none,
Since from your self, for your Heirs, all you have,
With Avarice, most lavishly you save;
For them who grudge you your Life, lay it up,
Out of your Pow'r, or Use, i'th' Scriv'ner's Shop;
Who think, whilst you live on, you do them Wrong,
To keep them from their own, not yours, so long;
Their own, who wou'd for Pleasure part with it,
Which you cannot, ev'n for your Pleasure quit;
Can't on your own Wants, or your Self, bestow,
So that it ought not for your own to go,
Since you but nothing with it have to do;
Thus on Life's Road, like careful Travellers,
You risk your Life for Gold, less yours than theirs,
You call your Friends, (but are your Foes) your Heirs;
You lug about Gold, but for those Men, who
Most seek your Death, wou'd strip you for it too;
Who but like Thieves, are so your Followers,
But to make all you live possess'd of, theirs;
Till you, full gorg'd, like sucking Leeches, die,
To make Foes, by your Death, live merrily;
Since but your Friends for your Long Life can grieve,
Whom you, by Living, of their Hopes deceive,
And them of their Inheritance bereave;
Which you gain'd, not so much to keep, as lose,
Since you but use it less, as more it grows,
And of it, as 'tis more, can less dispose;
Then leave your Avarice, but out of Thrift,
And be not by your Stores of them bereft;
For you, Poor Rich Man, are the Prodigal,
Who give, e'er you die, from your own self, all;
Not to your best Friend, but worst Enemy,
Your Heir, who cannot live, till that you die,
Thus of your Death, is in necessity;
You Muck-Worms, like the Silk-Worms, only so,
Labour but for your Shining Riflers, who,
Wou'd for your Pains and Gains, rob, kill you too;
Justly your Death, but for their Wealth, contrive,
Who your Heirs, of their Livelihood, deprive,
Since, till you Die, you will not let 'em Live;
Then say not, 'pray, you hate all Vanity,
Since, but for that, you live so Mis'rably;
For nothing is so Vain, as hoarding Store,
Which, the more 'tis, makes your Desires the more,
So you, but as more Rich, more truly Poor;
To be more Rich, more to your Infamy,
By being Guilty most Feloniously,
Most to your Shame, of your own Poverty.