The greatest Gifts that Nature does bestow, <br />Can't unassisted to Perfection grow: <br />A scanty Fortune clips the Wings of Fame, <br />And checks the Progress of a rising Name; <br />Each dastard Vertue drags a Captive's Chain, <br />And moves but slowly, for it moves with Pain. <br />Domestick Cares sit hard upon the Mind, <br />And cramp those Thoughts which shou'd be unconfin'd; <br />The Cries of Poverty alarm the Soul, <br />Abate its Vigour, its Designs controul: <br />The Stings of Want inflict the Wounds of Death, <br />And Motion always ceases with the Breath. <br />The Love of Friends is found a languid Fire, <br />That glares but faintly, and will soon expire; <br />Weak is its Force, nor can its Warmth be great, <br />A feeble Light begets a feeble Heat. <br />Wealth is the Fuel that must feed the Flame, <br />It dyes in Rags, and scarce deserves a Name.<br /><br />Thomas Parnell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/epigram-13/
