Classic Poem

1

Enough for shame! leave off this fooling,
Prithee cring no more
Nor admire the illgotten store
Of the upstart Mushromes of our Nation
With blind and groundlesse adoration,
If thy nature still wants schooling,
As thou dost grow old grow wise,
For age can easily advise,
And make thee know
'Tis only such as thou
That bring and keep both fools and knaves in fashion.

2

We make each other proud and knavish,
For where ever we
Great abundance chance to see,
There we fling both power and honour
As if wealth were the only donour,
And our natures are so slavish,
That we tamely will submit,
All our reason strength and wit,
And pay and pray
Great men in power, that they
Will take our Liberty and trample on her.

3

What is't makes all men so much covet,
Toyling more and more,
To increase a needless store,
So violently tugg and hall for't
Ventering body soul and all for't?
The rich are flatter'd and they love it,
We obey their shalls and musts,
And to gratifie their lusts,
We madly strive
Who first our selves shall give
And all that is ours to them, if they'l but call for't.

4

If we did take no notice of them,
Like not, nor applaud
Their spoyles obtaind by force and fraud
But would live content and jolly
Laughing at their painful folly,
And would neither fear nor love them,
Underneath their loads, they'ld groan,
Or with shame would throw them down,
And live as free
From needlesse cares as we,
Slight pompe and wealth, that makes men melancholly.

5

Pray what are all these gaudy bubbles
That so boast and rant,
Of what they think they have, but han't?
But men that had the luck of living,
And made other's fall their thriving,
Hailstones got in stormes of troubles,
That for valour are as fit
For Knights, as to be Squires for wit,
Inspir'd with pride,
Did what good men defi'd,
Grown great by Protean turning and conniving.

6

That man that would have me adore him
With my heart, he must
Be noble, pow'rful, wise and just,
And improve his parts and power
To support not to devour,
Nor pride nor lust, must e're rule o're him
Th'bugbeare greatnesse without this
An idle, empty pageant is,
He that doth rise
And is not good and wise,
I honour not, but pity and deplore him.