Epigram

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