Classic Poem

Thou Gaudy Idle world adieu,
& all thy tinsell Joys;
I lovd thee dearly once tis true,
But since a better choice I knew,
Ive made that better choice.
My wishes mount above the sky
Upon the wings of faith,
My soul shall follow when I dy,
For much I doubt if bodys fly,
What ever Asgill saith.
All things are fickle here below,
How ere above they be,
& If I had not left thee now,
Thy pleasures had left me.
Count but the changes Memory
Which your short time has known,
This is the third King which you see
Upon the English throne.
The Irish who by Williams reign
Were run so much aground,
Do by the Trust (confound it) Gain
three hundred thousand pound.
& My acquaintance wonder not
When you my change discover
Ev'n Methwin has a prayr book bought
'Gainst Rochester comes over.