Classic Poem

IX

Excess of ill got, ill kept Pelf,
 Does only Death, and Danger breed,
Whilst one rich Worldling starves himself
 With what would thousand others feed.

X

By which we see that Wealth and Pow'r
 Although they make men rich and great,
The sweets of Life do often sour,
 And gull Ambition with a Cheat.

XI

Nor is he happier than these,
 Who in a moderate estate,
Where he might safely live at ease,
 Has Lusts that are immoderate.

XII

For he, by those desires misled,
 Quits his own Vine's securing shade,
T'expose his naked, empty head
 To all the Storms Man's Peace invade.

XIII

Nor is he happy who is trim,
 Trick't up in favours of the Fair,
Mirrors, with every Breath made dim,
 Birds caught in every wanton snare.

XIV

Woman, man's greatest woe, or bliss,
 Does ofter far, than serve, enslave,
And with the Magick of a Kiss,
 Destroys whom she was made to save.

XV

Oh fruitful Grief, the World's Disease!
 And vainer Man to make it so,
Who gives his Miseries encrease
 By cultivating his own woe.

XVI

There are no ills but what we make,
 By giving Shapes and Names to things;
Which is the dangerous mistake
 That causes all our Sufferings.