Classic Poem

Men, that delight to multiply desire,
Like tellers are that take coyne but to pay,
Still tempted to be false with little hire,
Blacke hands except, which they would have away:
For where power wisely Audits her estate,
The Checquer Mens best recompense is hate.

The little Maide that weareth out the day,
To gather flow'rs still covetous of more,
At night when she with her desire would play,
And let her pleasure wanton in her store,
Discernes the first laid underneath the last,
Wither'd, and so is all that we have past.

Fix then on good desires, and if you finde
Ambitious dreames or feares of over-thwart;
Changes, temptations, bloomes of earthly minde,
Yet wave not, since earth-change hath change of smart;
For lest Man should thinke flesh a seat of blisse,
God workes that his joy mixt with sorrow is.