The poems of George Daniel ... From the original mss. in the British Museum: Hitherto unprinted. Edited, with introduction, notes, and illustrations, portrait, &c. By the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart: In four volumes |
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The poems of George Daniel | ||
101
Vanitie.
Soe Time but turnes his Glasse; and the same SandConsummates his full Period; though wee Stand
Fixéd on former Ages,—happier farre
As wee suppose,—Alas, alas, they are
But the same Miserie; they knew the greife
As well as wee, which follows humane Life;
Ambition, Envie, Iealousie, Distrust
Was then, as well as now; and ever must
(While Men have their Corruptions & desires)
Delude the world. Hee scornes what thou admires;
What thou Contemn'st, he glories in; and all
The Ioyes of men are follie. What wee call
Felicitie, is but a Shadow, toste
Vpon the Fancie, and in Fancie lost.
Light as the breath wee trust to, is our Ioy;
Our Pleasure, trouble: & our Boast, a Toy;
Wee only aime at Trifles, and present
Thin formes to gvide vs, in the banishment
Of a depravéd Nature; oh, the Sad
Anxietie of Passion; I am made,
Some time, a Thousand Men, in my owne Brest.
102
And most imperfect Shred from Nature's loome.
A despis'd Atome, in her rayes. To whom
Shall I appeale for wisedome? and get light
Of Iudgment, to informe my erring Sight?
In the Darke Maze of Error, whether run
My giddie feet? What never-resting Sun
Can tracke the path of Mortalls? or disperse
One Beame, beyond our follies and our fears.
Good God! what is our Glorie? Wee surmise
Only at truth! & though wee are not wise,
Wee are proud to boast our wants; and all our owne
Is ever best. Oh God, wee are vndone
In our owne proiect; and our glorie is
A Lumpe of Pride, a Shop of vanities;
Our learning (fairest Light) wee make a bait
To ruine Sence: and reason captivate
In gvives of Error. Into what immense
Inextricable Laberinths wee drench
Our vnderstandings! and the Charter, which
Nature gave absolute and free, wee pitch
Into a Model, with restriction,
And Artfull rules, when Reason wanted none;
For how is She Eclips'd! and Limited
To the proportion of another Head!
As though another Hercules had plac'd
Witt's great Ne vltra, never to be pass'd.
This is not the least Follie; through wee stray
103
Oh vanitie of Mortalls! to bequeath
Your Labours to Posteritie, in Death.
How doe wee Covet Glorie! and contrive
Our Being to the Future! Shall I give
My Name! and what I ever purchaséd
With Industrie, to the vncertaine head
Of a Supposéd Time? How madly spend
Wee then our oyle! Is this our Ayme? our End?
Ah, too too well, I see, in everie Line,
Wee tread this Path; and this poor verse of mine
Stands record to my Shame, that I intend
Somewhat to raise by it, and to some End:
Perhaps, to doe a greater worke then praise
Can flatter Witt into; perhaps it Strayes
With ffollie, more then I my selfe can feare;
For tell me, who are Equall Iudges here?
Alas, wee but deceive our Selves; what witt
Will here resigne? what Follye will Submitt?
Thus, discontented Fooles, wee spend the oyle
Of a Sad Life; Incessantlie All Toyle.
The poems of George Daniel | ||