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Poem	Rich fools there be, whose base and filthy heart Lies hatching still the goods wherein they flow: And damning their own selves to Tantal's smart, Wealth breeding want, more blist more wretched grow. Yet to those fools heav'n such wit doth impart As what their hands do hold, their heads do know, And knowing love, and loving, lay apart, As sacred things, far from all danger's show. But that rich fool who by blind Fortune's lot The richest gem of love and life enjoys, And can with foul abuse such beauties blot; Let him, depriv'd of sweet but unfelt joys, (Exil'd for aye from those high treasures, which He knows not) grow in only folly rich.
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