Classic Poem

What meane these mortall children of mine owne
Ungratefully, against me to complaine,
That all I build is by me overthrowne?
Vices put under to rise up againe?
That on my wheeles both Good, and Ill doe move;
The one beneath, while th' other is above?

Day, Night, Houres, Arts, All; God, or Men create,
The world doth charge me, that I restlesse change;
Suffer no being in a constant state:
Alas! Why are my revolutions strange
Unto these Natures, made to fall, or clime,
With that sweet Genius, ever-moving Time?

What Wearinesse; what lothsome Desolations
Would plague these life and death-begetting Creatures?
Nay what absurdity in my Creations
Were it, if Time-borne had Eternall features;
This nether Orbe, which is Corruptions Sphere,
Not being able long one shape to beare.

Could Pleasure live? Could Worth have reverence?
Lawes, Arts, or Sects (meere probabilities)
Keepe up their reputation in Mans sense,
If Noveltie did not renew his eyes;
Or Time take mildly from him what he knew,
Making both me, and mine, to each still new?

Daughter of Heaven am I; but God, none greater;
Pure like my Parents; life, and death of Action;
Author of ill successe to every creature
Whose pride against my Periods makes a faction:
With me who goe along, rise while they be;
Nothing of mine respects Eternitie.

Kings! why do you then blame me, whom I choose,
As my Annointed, from the Potters ore;
And to advance you made the People lose,
While you to me acknowledged your power?
Be confident all Thrones subsist in me:
I am the measure of Felicitie.

I bring the Truth to light; detect the Ill;
My Native greatnesse scorneth bounded wayes;
Untimely Power a few dayes ruine will;
Yea, Worth it selfe falls, till I list to raise.
The Earth is mine: of earthly things the care
I leave to Men, that like them, earthly are.

Not Kings, but I, can Nemesis send forth,
The judgments of Revenge, and Wrong, are mine:
My Stampes alone doe warrant reall Worth;
How doe untimely Vertues else decline?
For Sonne, or Father, to destroy each other,
Are bastard deeds, where Time is not the mother.

Such is the worke this State hath undertaken,
And keepes in Clouds; with purpose to advance
False counsells; in their selfe-craft justly shaken,
As grounded on my slave and shaddow, Chance.
Nay more; My childe Occasion is not free
To bring forth good, or evill, without me.

And shall I for revealing this misdeed,
By tying Future to the Present ill,
Which keepes disorders wayes from happie speed;
Be guiltie made of Man's still-erring will?
Shall I, that in my selfe still golden am,
By their Grosse metall, beare an Iron name?

No; Let Man draw, by his owne cursed Square,
Such crooked lines, as his fraile thoughts affect;
And, like things that of nothing framed are,
Decline unto that Centre of defect:
I will disclaime his downfall, and stand free,
As native rivall to Eternitie.