Classic Poem

If Fortune's dark eclipse cloud glorie's light,
Then what availes that pomp which pride doth claim?
A meere illusion made to mock the sight,
Whose best was but the shadow of a dreame.

Let greatnesse of her glassie scepters vaunt,
Not scepters, no, but reeds, soone bruis'd, soone broken;
And let this worldlie pompe our wits enchant,
All fades and scarcelie leaves behinde a token.

Those golden palaces, those gorgeous halls,
With furniture superfluously faire;
Those statlie courts, those sky-encount'ring walls
Evanish all—like vapours in the aire.

Our painted pleasures but apparell paine;
We spend our dayes in dread, our lives in dangers,
Balls to the starres, and thralls to Fortune's reigne,
Knowne unto all, yet to ourselves but strangers.