Classic Poem

Coveteousnese. 10 July 73

Oh what is this, that steals our harts away
This white, & yelow drose, refined clay
Litle of itt, will cary through
To that world, we ar going to
Yet doe we grasp, and crave
Still more, of itt, to have
this vanity
we deifie,

Ther's few contented with their own confines
But would break through, to win the golden mines
The stake, the sceptor, & the crown
Do all, to this Idoll bow down
Oh foolish, & unwise
Thus for, to Idolise
That which cant stead
When we have need.

Though this be strang, tis not so strang, as true
When neer to death, this world, we most persue
A thing we could not well, beleive
Did not experience. undeceive
Whilst we doe dayly see
Those ready hence, to flee
most strongly grasp
and hold, it fast.

Oh let my soull, to greater things aspire
Then that which grows, & springs, from durt, & mire
More coveteous. I still would grow
But not for thesse things, here below
But for the things above
to which, I shall remove
Within, the space
of a short race,