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 Why till on Natures Common Bounty live?

And why o oon content with what She'll give?

For where Contentment makes Endeavour les,

'Tis then a Vice, and not a Happines.

So the fam'd luggard tarv'd, and reaon good,

For want of feeding, not for want of Food;

Bear the Reproof, the fruitful Climate's known,

Not Heaven or Nature blame, the Fault's your own;

The Earth Adapt to bear, the Air, the Sea,

All fruitful, all to Plenty how the way;

No Barrennes, but in your Indut'ry.

'Tis Blaphemy to ay the Climates curt,

Nature will ne're be fruitful till he's forc't;

'Twas made her Duty from her firt Decay,

The weating Brow alone, and labouring hand t' obey,

And thee he never does, nor dares deny.

And yet this Sloth is not their proper Crime,

'Tis due to Poverty, and that to Time.

Hail SLOTH and POVERTY from Stygian Air,

Uhers to Death, and Handmaids to Depair.

Strange Birth, themeer Perfection of a Cure,

That find Men Mi'rable, and make them wore,

Of ill connected elf ingendring Birth,

Firt circulate themelves, and then the Earth;