Tell me, ye Poor ones! and your state explain,
Whose patience Heav'n proportions to your pain,
To whom is wanting ev'ry earthly good,
But quiet sleeps, and appetites subdu'd;
Whose hopes to no wild summit ever prest,
No keen sensations to disturb your breast:
Say, why were all these wondrous blessings giv'n,
But to convince you of the care of Heav'n?
To shew how  its gifts are lent,
To some in Gold, to others in Content.