Classic Poem

Why should man love this wretched world so much,
In which is nothing, but all worse then nought?
Shadowes and shewes of things are nothing such,
While strong illusions have too weake a thought,
With wicked humors too much over-wrought,
The witch of Will and overthrow of Wit,
Where gracelesse sinnes doe in their glory sit.

Beauty is but a babie's looking-glass,
While Money eates into the Miser's heart,
And guarded Pride, all like a Golden Asse,
Makes Lechery lay open every part.
Sloath lies and sleepes, and feares no waking smart,
While froth and fatte in drunken gluttony
The venome shew of Nature's villany.

Patience is counted but a poet's fancie,
While Wrath keepes reakes in every wicked place,
And fretting Envy falne into a franzie,
While tyrant Murther treades a bloody trace,
And blessed Pitty dare not shew her face:
Pride, power and peace march in such battle ray,
As beares downe all that comes within their way.

The wealthy Rascall be he ne're so base,
Filthy, ill-favor'd, ugly to behold,
Moale-eie, plaise-mouth, dogges-tooth, and camel's face,
Blinde, dumbe, and deafe, diseased, rotten, olde,
Yet, if he have the coffers full of golde,
He shall have reverence, curtsie, cappe and knee,
And worship, like a man of high degree.

He shall have Ballads written in his praise,
Bookes dedicated to his patronage,
Wittes working for his pleasure many waies,
Petigrees sought to mend his parentage,
And linkt perhaps in Noble marriage,
He shall have all that this vile worlde can give him,
That into pride, the devill's mouth may drive him.

If he can speake, his wordes are Oracles,
If he can see, his eyes are spectacles,
If he can heare, his eares are miracles,
If he can stand, his legges are pinacles,
Thus in the rules of Reason's obstacles,
If he be but a beast in shape and nature,
Yet, give him wealth, he is a goodly creature.

But, be a man of ne're so good a minde,
As fine a shpae as Nature can devise;
Vertuous and gratious, comely, wise, and kind,
Valiant, well given, full of good qualities,
And almost free from Fancie's vanities:
Yet let him want this filthy worldly-drosse,
He shall be sent but to the Beggars Crosse.

The foole will scoffe him, and the knave abuse him,
And every rascall in his kinde disgrace him,
Acquaintance leave him, and his friends refuse him:
And every dogge will from his doore displace him.
Oh this vile world will seeke so to deface him
That untill death doe come for to releeve him,
He shall have nothing heere but that may greeve him.

If he have pence to purchase pretty things,
She that doth love him will dissemble love;
While the poore man his heart with sorrow wrings
To see how want doth womens love remoove.
And make a lack-dawe of a turtle-dove:
If he be rich, worldes serve him for his pelfe,
If he be poore, he may go serve himselfe.

If he be rich, although his nose doe runne,
His lippes doe slaver, and his breath doe stinke,
He shall have napkins faire and finely spunne,
Pilles for the rhewme, and such perfumed drinke
As were he blinde, he shall not seeme to winke:
Yea, let him cough, halk, spit, fart and pisse,
If he be wealthy, nothing is amisse.

But with his pence, if he have got him power,
Then halfe a god, that is more than halfe a divell;
Then Pride must teach him how to looke as sower,
As beldam's milke that turned with her snevill;
While the poore man that little thinketh evill,
Though Nobly borne, shall feare the Beggar's frowne,
And creepe and crowch unto a filthy clowne.

Oh, he that wants this wicked cankred coyne,
May fret to death before he finde reliefe,
But if he have the cunning to purloyne
And ease the beggar of his biting griefe,
Although (perhaps) he play the privie thiefe:
It is no matter if the bagges be full,
Well fare the wit that makes the world a Gull.

The Chuffe that sits and champes upon his chaffe,
May have his mawkin kisse him like a mare;
And on his barne-doore-threshold lye and laugh,
To see the swagg'rer with the beggars share,
Follow the hounds, till he hath caught the hare:
Oh tis the purse that guildes the bullock's horne,
And makes the dhrew to laugh the sheepe to scorne.

Who hath not seene a logger-headed Asse,
That hat no more wit than an old loynd-stoole,
Prinking himselfe before a looking-glasse,
And set a face as though he were no foole,
When he that well might set the calfe to schoole,
Must be attentive to the gander's keake
Or give a plaudite, when the goose doth speake.

Let but a dunce, a dizard, or a dolt
Get him a welted gowne, a sattin coate;
Then though at randon he doe shoote his bolt,
By telling of an idle tale by roate,
Where Wisedome findes not one good word to note:
Yea though he can but gruntle like a swine
Yet to the eight wise men he shall be nine.

But for a poore man, be he nere so wise,
Grounded in rules of Wit and Reason's grace,
And in his speeches never so precise,
To put no word out of Discretion's place;
Yet shall you see, in shutting up the case,
A pesant sloven with the purse's sleight,
Will humme and haw him quite out of conceit.

Looke on a souldier that hath bravely serude
And with discretion can direct a campe;
If he have nothing for himselfe reservde,
To warme his loynts when he hath got the crampe;
He shall have little oyle unto his lampe,
But in a jacket and a paire of broages
Goe passe among the company of roages.

But, if he can make money of his men,
And his lieutenant to supply his place,
Although the cocke be of a craven henne,
And dare not meete a capon in the face;
Yet if he can be garded with gold lace,
And sweare and swagger with a sliver sword,
Who would not feare a stabbe for a foule word?

And yet this swappes, that never bloodied sword,
Is but a coward, brave it as he list:
And, though he sweare and stare to keepe his word,
He will but loose his armour in the list,
Or take the cuffe, and kindely kisse the fist;
Stolne honour is a lest of chivalry,
And unto valour open iniury.

While he that ventures landes, and goods, and life,
To shew the vertue of a valiant heart,
And leaves his house, his children and his wife,
And from his countrie's quiet will depart,
To passe the pikes of Danger's deadly smart;
He is the souldier, be he ne're so poore,
May write disgrace upon the coward's doore.

But for the Lords and Generals of fields,
The serieant-maiors, colonels, and such,
Marshalls and captaines, that in Vertue's shields
Doe beare the trueth of Valour's honour's tuch;
In good of them I cannot say too much.
If all their armour were of pearle and gold,
That by desert the due of knighthood hold.

Take an odde Vicar in a village-towne,
That onely prayes for plenty and for peace;
If he can get him but a thread-bare gown,
And tithe a pigge, and eate a goose in grease,
And set his hand unto his neighbour's lease,
And bid the clearke on Sondayes ring the bell,
He is a church-man fits the parish well.

But, if he get a benefice of worth,
That may maintaine a good hospitality,
And in the pulpit bring a figure forth,
Of faith and workes with a formality,
And tell a knave of a ill quality;
If with his preaching he can fill the purse,
He is a good man, God send nere a worse.

But yet this simple idle-headed asse,
That scarce hath learnd to spell the Hebrew names,
Sir Iohn Lack-latine with a face of brasse,
Who all by roate his poore collations frams,
And after service falles to ale-house games,
How ere his wit may glue the foole the lurch,
He is not fit to governe in the Church.

While he that spends the labour of his youth,
But in the Booke of the eternall blisse,
And can and will deliver but the trueth,
In which the hope of highest comfort is,
That cannot leade the faithfull soule amisse:
However so his state of wealth decline,
Deserves the title of the true divine.

I doe not speake of bishops nor of deanes,
Nor the learned doctors in divinity;
For they are men that rose by godly meanes,
Who with the world have no affinity,
But in the worship of the Trinity,
Their times, their brains, their loves, and lives do spend,
To gaine the honour that shall never end.

Take but a petti-fogger in the Law
That scarce a line of Littleton hath read,
If he hath learnd the cunning how to claw
His clients back and bring a foole to bed,
With beating toyes and trifles in his head;
His golden fees will get him such a grace
A better lawyer shall not cross his case.

But be a Poore man never so well read
In all the quirkes and quiddities of Law,
And beate his braines and weary out his head
Till he have prov'd a dunce to be a daw;
Yet will his skill be held not worth a straw,
And he perhaps in pleading of his case
With floutes and scoffes be shouldred out of place.
But let that pidling petti-fogging Iacke,
That faine would seeme a lawyer at the least,
Be ne're so busie in a begger's packe,
And light upon the carde that likes him best,
Yet shall you see in setting up his rest:
In all the game who so doe loose or save
His luck will allwaies fall upon the knave.