Classic Poem

What serues it to bee good? Goodnesse, by thee
The holy-wise is thought a foole to bee;
For thee the man to temperance inclin'de,
Is held but of a base and abject minde;
The continent is thought for thee but cold;
Who yet was good, that euer died old?
The pittifull who others feares to kill,
Is kill'd himselfe, and goodnesse doth him ill:
The meeke and humble man who cannot braue,
By thee is to some giant's brood made slaue.
Poore goodnesse, thine thou to such wrongs sett'st forth,
That O! I feare mee, thou art nothing worth:
And when I looke to earth, and not to heauen,
Ere I were turned doue, I would bee rauen.