So when the luck of men has mounted up to heaven,
It soon comes crashing down, and on the earth lies riven.
And all ill-gotten wealth, when right our estimate,
Is on the heart and mind a dead oppressive weight
That burdens evermore, with pain the conscience wringeth,
Its quiet rest disturbs, and into trouble bringeth.
And what have many more than of the poor the sweat?
What do they eat and drink, and what gain do they get?
They rob the widows' store, spite of their tears them wronging,
Who like a thirsty land for sympathy are longing.