| |
| THIS 1 worthlesse honour, that desert not reares, | |
| Is but as fruitlesse showes, which bloome, then perish: | |
| Where merite buildes not, that foundation teares. | |
| There’s nought but trueth that can man’s standing cherish: | |
| This great experience dayly now appeares, | 5 |
| What one upholdes, another he downe casts, | |
| This gentle blood doth suffer many blasts. | |
| |
| I smyle to see some bragging gentle-men, | |
| That clayme their discent from king Arthur great; | |
| And they will drinke, and sweare, and roare: what then? | 10 |
| Would make their betters foote-stooles to their feet, | |
| And stryve to bee applaus’d with print and pen; | |
| And were hee but a farmer, if hee can | |
| But keepe an hound,—O there’s a gentle-man! | |
| |
| But, foolish thou, looke to the grave, and learne | 15 |
| How man lies there deform’d, consum’d in dust; | |
| And in that mappe thy judgement may discearne | |
| How little thou in birth and blood shouldst trust. | |
| Such sightes are good,—they doe thy soule concerne. | |
| Wer’st thou a kinglie sonne, and vertue want, | 20 |
| Thou art more brute than beastes which desarts hant. | |
| |
| And more, vaine worlde, I see thy great transgression, | |
| Each day new murther, blood-shed, craft, and thift, | |
| Thy lovelesse law, and lawlesse proude oppression, | |
| Thy stiffeneckt crew their heads ov’r saincts they lift, | 25 |
| And, misregarding God, fall in degression: | |
| The widdow mournes, the proude the poore oppresse, | |
| The rich contemne the silly fatherlesse: | |
| |
| And rich men gape, and, not content, seeke more, | |
| By sea and land, for gaine, run manie miles; | 30 |
| The noblest strive for state, ambition’s glore, | |
| To have preferment, landes, and greatest stiles, | |
| Yet nev’r content of all, when they have store; | |
| And from the sheepheard to the king, I see, | |
| There’s no contentment for a worldlie eye. | 35 |
| |
| O! is hee poore, then faine he would bee rich; | |
| And rich, what tormentes his great griede doth feele: | |
| And is hee gentle, hee strives moe hightes t’ touch; | |
| If hee unthrives, hee hates another’s weele; | |
| His eyes pull home what his handes dare not fetch. | 40 |
| A quiet minde, who can attaine that hight, | |
| But either slaine by griede or envie’s spright? | |
| |
| Man’s naked borne, and naked hee returnes, | |
| Yet whiles hee lives God’s providence mistrustes; | |
| Hee gapes for pelfe, and still in avarice burnes; | 45 |
| And, having all, hath nothing but his lustes, | |
| Insatiate still, backe to his vomite turnes. | |
| Vilde dust and earth, believ’st thou in a shadow, | |
| Whose high-tun’d prime falles like a new-mowne medow? | |
| |
| I grieve to see the world and worldling playing: | 50 |
| The wretch, puft up, is swell’d with hellish griede; | |
| The worlde deceives him with a swift assaying; | |
| And as hee stands, hee cannot take good heede, | |
| But for small trash must yeelde eternal paying: | |
| And dead, another enjoyes what hee got, | 55 |
| And spendes up all, whiles hee in grave doeth rot. | |
