The Golden Treasury. Unknown

           Poor Soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

           Fool'd by those rebel powers that thee array,

           Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth,

           Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

           Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

           Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

           Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

           Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?

           Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,

           And let that pine to aggravate thy store;

           Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

           Within be fed, without be rich no more:—

           So shall thou feed on death, that feeds on men,

           And death once dead, there's no more dying then.

           The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man

                  Less than a span:

           In his conception wretched, from the womb

                  So to the tomb;

           Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years

                  With cares and fears.

           Who then to frail mortality shall trust,

           But limns on water, or but writes in dust.

           Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,

                  What life is best?

           Courts are but only superficial schools

                  To dandle fools:

           The rural parts are turn'd into a den

                  Of savage men:

           And where's a city from foul vice so free,

           But may be term'd the worst of all the three?

           Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,

                  Or pains his head:

           Those that live single, take it for a curse,

                  Or do things worse:

           Some would have children: those that have them, moan

                  Or wish them gone:

           What is it, then, to have, or have no wife,

           But single thraldom, or a double strife?

           Our own affections still at home to please

                  Is a disease:

           To cross the seas to any foreign soil,

                  Peril and toil:

           Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,

                  We are worse in peace;—

           What then remains, but that we still should cry

           For being born, or, being born, to die

           Of this fair volume which we World do name

           If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,

           Of Him who it corrects, and did it frame,

           We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:

           Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,

           His providence extending everywhere,

           His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,

           In every page, no period of the same.

           But silly we, like foolish children, rest

           Well pleased with colour'd vellum, leaves of gold,

           Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,

           On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;

           Or if by chance we stay our minds on aught,

           It is some picture on the margin wrought.

           Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?

           Is this the justice which on Earth we find?

           Is this that firm decree which all doth bind?

           Are these your influences, Powers above?

           Those souls which vice's moody mists most blind,

           Blind Fortune, blindly, most their friend doth prove;

           And they who thee, poor idle Virtue! love,

           Ply like a feather toss'd by storm and wind.

           Ah! if a Providence doth sway this all,

           Why should best minds groan under most distress?

           Or why should pride humility make thrall,

           And injuries the innocent oppress?

           Heavens! hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time

           When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!

           Tired with all these, for restful death I cry—

           As, to behold desert a beggar born,

           And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,

           And purest faith unhappily forsworn,

           And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,

           And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,

           And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,

           And strength by limping sway disabléd

           And art made tongue-tied by authority,

           And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,

           And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,

           And captive Good attending captain Ill:—

           —Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,

           Save that, to die, I leave my Love alone.