Classic Poem

How I laugh at their fond wish
Whose desire
Aims no higher
Than the baits of Midas' dish?
What is gold but yellow dirt?
Which th'unkind
Heavens refined
When they made us love our hurt.
Would to heaven that I might steep
My faint eyes
In the wise,
In the gentle dews of sleep!
Whose effects do pose us so,
That we deem
It does seem
Both Death's brother and his foe.
This does always with us keep,
And being dead
That's not fled:
Death is but a longer sleep.