Classic Poem

Cogitabo pro peccato meo.

 In what darke silent grove
Profan'd by no unholy love,
Where witty melancholy nere
Did carve the trees or wound the ayre,
Shall I religious leasure winne
 To weepe away my sinne?

 How fondly have I spent
My youthes unvalued treasure, lent
To traffique for Cœlestiall joyes?
My unripe yeares pursuing toyes;
Iudging things best that were most gay
 Fled unobserv'd away.

 Growne elder I admired
Our Poets as from heaven inspired.
What Obeliskes decreed I fit
For Spencers Art, and Sydnyes wit?
But waxing sober soone I found
 Fame but an Idle sound.

 Then I my blood obey'd
And each bright face an Idoll made:
Verse in an humble Sacrifice,
I offer'd to my Mistresse eyes.
But I no sooner grace did win
 But met the devill within.

 But growne more polliticke
I tooke account of each state tricke:
Observ'd each motion, judg'd him wise,
Who had a conscience fit to rise.
Whom soone I found but forme and rule
 And the more serious foole.

 But now my soule prepare
To ponder what and where we are:
How fraile is life, how vaine a breath
Opinion, how uncertaine death:
How onely a poore stone shall beare
 Witnesse that once we were.

 How a shrill Trumpet shall
Vs to the barre as traytors call.
Then shall we see too late that pride
Hath hope with flattery bely'd
And that the mighty in command
 Pale Cowards there must stand.

Cogitabo pro peccato meo.

 In what darke silent grove
Profan'd by no unholy love,
Where witty melancholy nere
Did carve the trees or wound the ayre,
Shall I religious leasure winne
 To weepe away my sinne?

 How fondly have I spent
My youthes unvalued treasure, lent
To traffique for Cœlestiall joyes?
My unripe yeares pursuing toyes;
Iudging things best that were most gay
 Fled unobserv'd away.

 Growne elder I admired
Our Poets as from heaven inspired.
What Obeliskes decreed I fit
For Spencers Art, and Sydnyes wit?
But waxing sober soone I found
 Fame but an Idle sound.

 Then I my blood obey'd
And each bright face an Idoll made:
Verse in an humble Sacrifice,
I offer'd to my Mistresse eyes.
But I no sooner grace did win
 But met the devill within.

 But growne more polliticke
I tooke account of each state tricke:
Observ'd each motion, judg'd him wise,
Who had a conscience fit to rise.
Whom soone I found but forme and rule
 And the more serious foole.

 But now my soule prepare
To ponder what and where we are:
How fraile is life, how vaine a breath
Opinion, how uncertaine death:
How onely a poore stone shall beare
 Witnesse that once we were.

 How a shrill Trumpet shall
Vs to the barre as traytors call.
Then shall we see too late that pride
Hath hope with flattery bely'd
And that the mighty in command
 Pale Cowards there must stand.