Classic Poem

Why so much out of Humour, are you here,
So fearful yet, of going hence, elsewhere?
Why thus aweary of your Stay below,
To Rest eternal, yet afraid to go?
Why, with the same Joys, still disgusted here?
Or here, but their Incertainty to fear,
Yet, not desire to go to that Place? where,
Your Faith alone, wou'd make 'em to you sure,
Where they, nay you, might evermore endure?
Are you in Pleasure, or Prosperity?
Then you shou'd rather wish, than fear to Die,
To shun here, Fate's most sure Inconstancy;
To 'scape the Fear of Death, and Fortune's Pow'r,
To live more happy here, as evermore:
In Pain are you? Then wish this Life to quit,
If but to be, as sooner out of it;
The Pain, or Shame, the Trouble, or the Grief,
Does it grow here, of your Ambitious Life?
To have above you, so many below,
Why not to Heav'n, to get above all, go?
Out of a High Place, fear you to be thrown?
Why go not where no Change was ever known?
What are the Stale Allurements of this Life?
That they shou'd make, two such Old Friends, at Strife?
The Soul, and Body here, shou'd set at odds,
And hinder Mortals from becoming Gods?
Since Pleasures here, will from us post away,
Thither let's haste, where fix'd Joys for us stay,
Where we, nor they, can ever know Decay;
If Change of Pleasures, Life, or Residence,
Be Satisfaction, why not hasten hence?
From Joys, which leave us, if we do not them,
Nay try'd, are contrary to what they seem;
Whose very Being, they themselves destroy,
Which cannot satisfie, but they must cloy,
So more our Pain, or Grief, as more our Joy;
Since Glory's volatile, Wealth, Joys, unsure,
Why take not offer'd Joys, which still endure?
Why more to this Life's Labour, Danger, Pain,
For Fame, Ease, Safety, Pleasure, seek in vain?
Since our Desires crave more, the more they gain;
Which, with our Wealth's, and Honour's, Stores Increase,
To make us, as they grow more, less at Ease;
To make (but as the more is our Success)
Our Happiness, and Satisfaction less;
Since our Gains, more our Avarice and Pride
Increase, to make us but as more supply'd,
To be but the less pleas'd, or satisfy'd;
Since more Stores, more Desires but multiply,
Our Plenty grows more shameful Poverty,
Honour increasing Pride, our Infamy;
So Honour, Wealth, are more Disparagement,
Which, growing more, more lessen our Content,
Our Satisfaction, by Success, prevent;
Then we, by Pow'r's, Wealth's, Honour's, vain Increase,
Augmenting our Desires, enjoy 'em less;
Nay, lessen our own selves, to make 'em more,
Who, for them, have our Minds less in our Pow'r;
Since Stores, Stiles, by which Men are Vainer made;
Great Souls of Honour, by their Height, degrade;
By which they show, their Spirits are more poor,
But as they want still, to support 'em more;
Whilst that Poor Great Man's Spirit best is shown,
Which is supported by itself alone,
And under Want, or Shame, does suffer none;
Who seeks not Honour, to his Virtue's Shame,
But Honour, to deserve it, does disclaim;
His Merit (more to prove it) will disown,
Since Virtue's least by Ostentation shown,
Which makes Man more Immortal still elsewhere,
As less he seeks to live in Glory here;
Which here, but by his vain Presumption too,
As elsewhere, will his Condemnation grow;
Since Virtue of its Merit is debarr'd,
But more, as it claims for it more Reward;
The Credit of our Fame, as Wealth we lose,
Which our Shame, but by too much Seeking, grows,
And being of it but too Covetous;
Presumption will the Fame we crave deny,
Here, elsewhere forfeit Immortality;
The Reputation of True Sense, or Wit,
Which makes Man sooner die, to live by it;
To live by Monument, or Epitaph,
But to renew Friends Grief, and make Foes laugh;
To see Proud Man record his Vanity,
To Defamation of his Memory;
Which, to support his Family's just Pride,
Had better with him in Oblivion dy'd;
Since most Great Tombs their Little Guests belie,
With some such Libelling damn'd Flattery;
As here, in Hopes of an Immortal State,
I' th' Space of Six Foot, lies the Deathless Great;
A Lie, but more to make the Marble sweat.