Classic Poem

What meanes this New-borne childe of Planets' motion?
This finite Elfe of Mans vaine acts, and errors?
Whose changing wheeles in all thoughts stirre commotion?
And in her owne face, onely, beares the Mirror.
A Mirror in which, since Time tooke her fall,
Mankinde sees Ill increase; no Good at all.

Because in your vast mouth you hold your Tayle,
As coupling Ages past with times to come;
Doe you presume your Trophees shall not fayle,
As both Creation's Cradle, and her Tombe?
Or for beyond your selfe you cannot see,
By dayes, and houres, would you Eternall be?

Time is the weakest worke of my Creation,
And, if not still repayr'd, must straight decay:
The Mortall take not my true constellation,
And so are dazzled, by her nimble sway,
To thinke her course long; which if measur'd right,
Is but a Minute of my Infinite.

A Minute which doth her subsistence tye;
Subsistencies which, in not being, be:
Shall is to come; and Was is passed by;
Time present cements this Duplicitie:
And if one must, of force, be like the other,
Of Nothing is not Nothing made the mother?

Why strives Time then to parallell with me?
What be her types of longest lasting glory?
Arts, Mitres, Lawes, Moments, Supremacie,
Of Natures erring Alchymie the storie:
From Nothing sprang this point, and must, by course,
To that confusion turne againe, or worse.

For she, and all her mortall off-springs, build
Upon the moving Base of selfe-conceit:
Which constant forme can neither take, nor yeeld;
But still change shapes, to multiply deceit:
Like playing Atomi, in vaine contending,
Though they beginning had, to have no ending.

I, that at once see Time's distinct progression;
I, in whose bosome Was, and Shall, still be;
I, that in Causes worke th' Effects Succession,
Giving both Good, and Ill, their destinie;
Though I bind all, yet can receive no bound;
But see the finite still it selfe confound.

Time! therefore know thy limits, and strive not
To make thy selfe, or thy works Infinite,
Whose Essence only is to write, and blot:
Thy Changes prove thou hast no stablish't right.
Governe thy mortall Sphere, deale not with mine:
Time but the servant is of Power Divine.

Blame thou this present State, that will blame thee;
Brick-wall your errors from one, to another;
Both faile alike unto Eternitie,
Goodnesse of no mixt course can be the mother.
Both you, and yours doe covet states Eternall;
Whence, though pride end, your pains yet be Infernall.

Ruine this Masse; worke Change in all Estates,
Which, when they serve not me, are in your power:
Give unto their corruption doomes of Fate;
Let your vast wombe your Cadmus-men devoure.
The Vice yeelds scope enough for you, and hell,
To compasse ill ends by not doing well.

Crosse your owne steps; hasten to make, and marre;
With your Vicissitudes please, displease your owne:
Your three light wheeles of sundry fashions are,
And each, by others motion, overthrowne.
Doe what you can: Mine shall subsist by Me:
I am the measure of Felicitie.