Whom for his virtues the first Romans chose: 
  Fabricius from their walls repell’d the foe, 450
  Whose noble hands had exercised the plough. 
  From hence, my lord, and love, I thus conclude,
  That though my homely ancestors were rude,
  Mean as I am, yet I may have the grace
  To make you father of a generous race: 
  And noble then am I, when I begin,
  In virtue clothed, to cast the rags of sin. 
  If poverty be my upbraided crime,
  And you believe in Heaven, there was a time
  When He, the great controller of our fate, 460
  Deign’d to be man, and lived in low estate;
  Which He who had the world at his dispose,
  If poverty were vice, would never choose. 
  Philosophers have said, and poets sing,
  That a glad poverty’s an honest thing. 
  Content is wealth, the riches of the mind;
  And happy he who can that treasure find. 
  But the base miser starves amidst his store,
  Broods on his gold, and, griping still at more,
  Sits sadly pining, and believes he’s poor. 470
  The ragged beggar, though he want relief,
  Has not to lose, and sings before the thief. 
  Want is a bitter and a hateful good,
  Because its virtues are not understood;
  Yet many things, impossible to thought,
  Have been by need to full perfection brought: 
  The daring of the soul proceeds from thence,
  Sharpness of wit, and active diligence: 
  Prudence at once, and fortitude, it gives,
  And, if in patience taken, mends our lives; 480
  For even that indigence, that brings me low,
  Makes me myself, and Him above, to know. 
  A good which none would challenge, few would choose,
  A fair possession, which mankind refuse. 
  If we from wealth to poverty descend,
  Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend. 
  If I am old and ugly, well for you,
  No lewd adulterer will my love pursue;
  Nor jealousy, the bane of married life,
  Shall haunt you for a wither’d homely wife; 490
  For age and ugliness, as all agree,
  Are the best guards of female chastity. 
  Yet since I see your mind is worldly bent,
  I’ll do my best to further your content. 
  And therefore of two gifts in my dispose,
  Think ere you speak, I grant you leave to choose: 
  Would you I should be still deform’d and old,
  Nauseous to touch, and loathsome to behold;
  On this condition to remain for life,
  A careful, tender, and obedient wife, 500
  In all I can contribute to your ease,
  And not in deed, or word, or thought displease: 
  Or would you rather have me young and fair,
  And take the chance that happens to your share? 
  Temptations are in beauty, and in youth,
  And how can you depend upon my truth? 
  Now weigh the danger with the doubtful bliss,
  And thank yourself, if aught should fall amiss.