Sorte, aut Labore

IF neither art, by birth, nor fortune blest,
With meanes to liue, or answere thy desire,
With cheerefull heart, on labour set thy rest,
To bring to passe the thing thou dost require,
For lot, or labour, must our calling giue,
And find the word, that all doe seeke, TO LIVE.

Though thousands haue beene raised by their frendes,
By death, by dowries, even when least they thought,
The Lord a blessing, still to labour sendes,
When lightly come, doth lightly goe as oft:
And goodes ill got, by vse, and wicked gaine,
Doe seldome to the second heire remaine.