Classic Poem

Of myselfe.

Lord ! my poore braines how busily I beate,
My temples toile with chafing of my hand;
My sleepes disturb, my meales cutt short at meate:
My time consume. Why? Not to purchase land,
Nor soule to saue, nor goods to gayne, do I
Endure this toile, but meerely for the meede
Of Fames fraile blast, which with my selfe must dye,
Or, after death, can stand in little steede
When from my wits I draw the quintessence
Subliming that too to the highest height.
An airy-word is all the recompence
That to my lott for all my paines shall light
Perhapps some gull (as witty as a goose)
Saies with a coy seue-looke its pritty, pritty
But yet that so much witt hee should dispose
To so small purpose, faith (saith hee) its pitty.
Some foole els shootes his bowlt and hath his bvt:
He hath a pritty witt, bvt yet (saith hee)
Herein (methinkes) he is much ouer-shutt
And then (perhapps) he cauills with a T
That was misplacd, or at the most missuted
T ordurd in his teeth where its well plac'd;
Faine would he flout if ought were to be flouted:
And all but his owne witt, would haue disgrac'd
But if some other, better farre affected,
Commend my lines and relish my conceite:
Here's the reward that all in all's expected;
And what is this but winde of meere deceit?
When Fames fatt-fooles of fame haue had their fill
They stand on tipto, proud of praised skill;
Yet with one stroke Death both at once doth spill.