Classic Poem

Can any tell me what it is? can you,
That wind your thoughts into a Clue
To guide out others, while your selves stay in,
And hug the Sin?
I, who so long have in it liv'd,
That if I might,
In truth I would not be repriev'd:
Have neither sight,
Nor sense that knows
These Ebbs and Flows .
But since of all, all may be said,
And likelines doth but upbraid,
And mock the Truth , which still is lost
In fine Conceits , like streams in a sharp frost:
I will not strive, nor the Rule break
Which doth give Loosers leave to speak.
Then false and foul World, and unknown
Ev'n to thy own:
Here I renounce thee, and resign
Whatever thou can'st say, is thine.
Thou art not Truth ; for he that tries
Shall find thee all deceit and lyes.
Thou art not friendship ; for in thee
'Tis but the bait of policy.
Which, like a Viper lodg'd in Flow'rs ,
Its venom through that sweetness pours.
And when not so, then always 'tis
A fadeing paint ; the short-liv'd bliss
Of air and Humour : out and in
Like Colours in a Dolphin 's skin
But must not live beyond one day ,
Or Convenience ; then away.
Thou art not Riches ; for that Trash
Which one age hoords, the next doth wash
And so severely sweep away;
That few remember, where it lay.
So rapid streams the wealthy land
About them, have at their command:
And shifting channels here restore,
There break down, what they bank'd before.
Thou art not Honour ; for those gay
Feathers will wear, and drop away;
And princes to some upstart line
Give new ones, that are full as fine.
Thou art not pleasure ; for thy Rose
Upon a thorn doth still repose;
Which if not cropt, will quickly shed;
But soon as cropt, grows dull and dead.
Thou art the sand , which fills one glass ,
And then doth to another pass;
And could I put thee to a stay,
Thou art but dust ! then go thy way,
And leave me clean and bright, though poor ;
Who stops thee, doth but dawb his floor,
And Swallow -like, when he hath done,
To unknown dwellings must be gone!
Welcom pure thoughts and peaceful hours
Inrich'd with Sunshine and with show'rs ;
Welcom fair hopes and holy Cares,
The not to be repented shares
Of time and business: the sure rode
Unto my last and lov'd Abode !
O supreme Bliss !
The Circle, Center and Abyss
Of blessings, never let me miss
Nor leave that Path , which leads to thee:
Who art alone all things to me!
I hear, I see all the long day
The noise and pomp of the broad way ;
I note their Course and proud approaches:
Their silks, perfumes and glittering Coaches.
But in the narrow way to thee
I observe only poverty,
And despis'd things: and all along
The ragged, mean and humble throng
Are still on foot, and as they go,
They sigh and say; Their Lord went so !
Give me my staff then, as it stood
When green and growing in the Wood.
(Those stones , which for the Altar serv'd,
Might not be smooth'd, nor finely carv'd:)
With this poor stick I'le pass the Foord
As Jacob did; and thy dear word ,
As thou hast dress'd it: not as Witt
And deprav'd tastes have poyson'd it:
Shall in the passage be my meat,
And none else will thy Servant eat.
Thus, thus and in no other sort
Will I set forth, though laugh'd at for't;
And leaving the wise World their way,
Go through; though Judg'd to go astray.