Classic Poem

The vanity of the world, and instabylyty of
creture comforts.

This world is an enchantrese, which
Doth with its suptle Charm
Our poor, & silly soulls, bewicth
And doth us no small harm.

Tis vanity, of vanitys
vexation, of spirit
An heap of solid misirys
Is all wee, doe inheritt.

If in a freind, we take delight
He is soon gone away
His businese makes him, take his flight
With us, he cannot stay.

If on relations, wee, begin
To sett too high a rate
Death comes, & cuts the twined string
And soon they'r out of date.

Their love, and frindship's soon for got
When they ar laid in dust
Only we know, this our lot
That folow them we must.

If wee enjoy them yet a while
Our comforts ar unfixt
We have with them much greif, & toyle
Our plesure in them's mixt.

Somtimes our sweetest deerest friend
Dos prove our greatest snare
Whilst love, and anger, our harts rend
Wee know this is not rare.

A Child (the staff of parents age)
after our many cares,
May soe in ways, of sin engage
As will draw forth our tears.

The world it dos devide our hart
Except we keep it under
And slyly steall, away gods part
Soe putting, us asunder.

Fame, honour, state, traine; bloud, and birth
With all the pomp of kings
Ar fading blosomes of the earth
Poor, empty, sorry, things.

Honour that makes the man look big
About the world hee'l huff
He can out, on't no plesure dig
Tis but a windy puff.

Riches do fly away with wings
Like to the soaring eagle
Yet How doe these, poor, guilded things
Our silly harts enveagle.

Wouldst thou a while, look into pleasure
they ar but vanitis
when thou hast had the greatest measure.
they ne're can satisfie.

When with the old, thou'rt tired out
Thou must goe seek for new
And when in them thou'st whirl'd about
They'l sting att the reveiw.

Thou wer't eternall from thy self
Blessed oh Lord thou art
Away from me, yea worldly pelf
My god has gain'd my hart.