Classic Poem

Wise mens desires which of their souls are sayles,
Should steer to Heav'n; while sighs send thither gales;
And down on appetites like to fishes look;
Which run at rotten worms which hide a hook;
Begot of sense, which like abortives die;
With shame and grief season satietie;
Dreams which disturbance have, not rest of sleep:
Various as Children sporting at Bo-peep.
Of Sysiphus stone, or an Ixions wheel,
What Poets phancy, here we true may feel:
Felicities are floting Islands which retire,
As soon as we to touch them do desire:
Of ere relapsing actions life's a toyl;
Where for one Rose, a thousand thorns us spoil.
See how from walnuts troops of silly boyes;
Men persue bubles, end before their noise.
Who said an egge the joyes of th' world confin'd:
Deceiv'd not, though it broke, show'd nought but wind.
Joy onely tickles th' outside of the skin:
Sweet waters Seas of bitternesse run in.
What can we draw from th' world, but bubbles swell,
Break, vanish, Dives lend no drop in Hell.
Pleasure's a wandring bird, doth singing sit,
But fly's away when you would catch at it.
Would you of th' world, the greatest pleasure know,
Pleasure contemn; it from contempt doth grow.