Classic Poem

Thou wouldst be greate and to such height wouldst rise
That all might know thee: thou all despise.
Alas! thou knowst not, what full blessings flow
To those that strive to keepe themselves below.
We fooles that gaze on great ones and admire
Their outward light, feele not their inwarde fire.
Our eyes behold them followed and attired
Like Gods on earth: but were our mindes inspired
To see them when these clouds are overblowne,
They are but wretches when they are alone.
Try such a one if he dare blesse his sight
With beames of peace, and contemplations hight.
Clean thoughts, selfe-knowledge, and retirednesse
Means sent from heaven, to make our sufferings lesse
While in this life we turne our painful wheeles,
Become his heavie torments: then he feeles
His greefes, his feares, his errors, his unrest
Attending on him; and his owne rackt breast
Sitting as Judge is forced to declare
Those happie who most far from greatness are.
These things like spirits haunt, and curse his wayes,
Though armd with circling pompe, and spells of prayse.
They check his pride, they interrupt delight,
They give him restless dayes, and sleeplesse nights;
They breed such paines as damned soules endure.
Who neither can nor will release procure,
Who sees his steps with snares compassd round
All paths uncertaine, and no passage found,
His journey forwards daunger, his returne
Disgrace, and daunger, vaine it is to mourne
His lucklesse entrance to the fatall plaine,
For should some messenger of heavenly grace
Instruct, and guide him in this doubtful waye
He in the pride and pleasure still would staye,
And in his glorious aping takes content,
Though he abhor th' ensuinge punishment.
O blinded men who borne to endlesse paine
Find ev'ry hour just reason to complaine
Of this corrupted house wherein you dwell,
What strange enchaunter, armd straight from hell
Hath thus bewitcht you with distracting charmes
To seeke new arts to increase your native harmes?
Is't not enough that inward fell debate
Disturb you in your most retyred state?
That you like banisht wretches in a land
Dry, and unfruitful as the parching sand,
Where reason gainst as manie monsters fights
As you have senses, passions, appetites,
But you must boldly raise yourselves on high
To be the marke of every envious eye,
To climbe to cares by smooth and brittle staires
Where he is happie that at first despaires.
When you look upwards; then you see no bounds,
A dreadful depth when you behold the grounds.
To gaine the bitter and tormented hate
Of those that liv'd in equall hope and state,
To whose vext mindes all your commodities
Seem losses, all your honours injuries;
To live base slaves to your unconstant friends,
Drawne by their own (and those, insatiate) ends;
Whose faults are made your Crimes, while they remaine
Free from your woes though partners of your gaine:
To please your selves as if you could be blest
By joyes depending on anothers breast,
Who in a moment can your glories drowne
And make you wretches by one cloudie frowne.
The man that rashly plants his comforts here
Let him not death, nor strife, nor torments feare.
His state is proofe against the dreadful curse
Of blastinge tongues; no mischiefe can be worse.
Infernal feendes, whom from your hideous den
God lets you loose to punish sinfull men,
Choose for your weapons neither swords nor fires,
Nor hot infections; but extreme desires
Of Courtly greatness, and t'augment their paine
Teach the fit wayes their fruitlesse scope t' obtaine.