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Content, at the rich man's gate, Called, ‘Wilt thou let me in?’ ‘No! thou art poor and thou art not great, Hast nothing thy way to win. Here love is little and mighty is power; Fate may change in a wayward hour, A monarch's heart may grow weary of thought. What if his gold-bringing bees be caught, Or wake to the fact of their sting? He has all to lose, if nothing to gain, And his throne doth lean for support in the main On the different minds that have crowned him a kin In their summer of thinking: so, sorrow And winter may come with the morrow.’

Sweet Content, at the poor man's door. Called, ‘May I enter here?’ ‘No! we bees of the golden store Are smothered with cold and fear.