On Discontent for Poverty

Hast thou thy Fortunes lost, and now,
Poor Man, do'st live thou know'st not how?
And art so much bereav'd of sense,
As not to see God's Providence,
That thus without thy loss or care,
Provides thee of all necessary fare?
Why art thou then so discontent,
To call this Plenty, Punishment?
It is not well to make such moan,
'Cause all thou seest is not thy own?
Thy heart is earthly, and thy mind
Will neither peace nor comfort find.
Though the whole World thou didst enjoy,
Something would still thy heart annoy.
Did'st ever yet see any thing
Did thy expected Pleasure bring?
Or did'st thou ever any-where,
Once find the Joys thou look'st for there?
But now methinks I hear thee cry,
Thou griev'st for thy Posterity,
While thou do'st doubt the same great hand,
That does the Heaven and Earth Command,
Should less provide for them than thee:
All this is great Impiety.