The Arbor of Amitie wherin is comprised pleasant Pohems and pretie Poesies, set foorth by Thomas Howell |
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Being vexed with the care of the worlde, be comforteth himselfe.
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 | The Arbor of Amitie |  |
Being vexed with the care of the worlde, be comforteth himselfe.
My phantasie, tormenteth mee,for worldly thing to care:
How to prouide, mine age to guide,
some stedfast land to beare.
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but all I see is vaine:
My braines to beat, these goodes to get,
not one will ease my paine.
For euerie man, doth what he can,
to ridde himselfe from iagges:
And some by hooke, and some by crooke,
doe fill their greedie bagges.
All honestie is forst to flie,
and lawes doe holde their peace:
They care not how, so goods doe grow,
their worldly carks to presse.
A thousand slights eche daies and nights,
in head I doe conceaue:
Yet none I finde, can serue my minde,
my worldly woes to leaue.
For if I lack, and bare be back,
though wyt and grace be great:
Yet credit dies, and worship flies,
no friends then shalt thou get.
For nowe they doe esteeme men so,
as riches mounts on hie:
The godly minde, they set behinde,
and vertues all doe lie.
These things doe warne, to voyde the harme,
some welth in youth to peeke:
But yet alas, I Midas Asse,
this geere in vaine doe seeke.
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in cares my yeres dispende:
The thing to see, that will not bee,
vntill that God it sende.
Marke well in plight, the birds so light,
that finely fed, doe sing:
They reape, nor sow, nor plow, nor moe,
they want no earthly thing.
And vewe eche howre, the little flowre,
and Roses freshe that groe:
They carde nor spin, on spindle thin,
their common deeds to shoe.
Yet Salomon, that Prince alone,
in all his royaltie,
Was not so gay, as one of they,
of peerlesse soueraigntie.
Short time God lend, our lyfe to spende,
in this most wretched vale:
For space of howre, scant stande we sure,
from dart of death so pale.
The yong truelie, as sone may die,
as men of elder age:
All things are fraile, and all shall quaile,
as fire shall them discharge.
All dignitie, is daunger hie,
and pouertie is harde:
All welth is doong, no ioyes be long,
why shoulde I then regarde?
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in his estate content:
Who lacks no things, what more haue kings,
of all his landes and rent?
I see full plaine, that some whose paine,
haue hoorded riches great:
By sodaine glay, are whipt away,
for paines no fruite they get.
Then phantasie torment not mee,
for humaine things so scant:
God will foresee, for his that bee,
they othing shall not want.
| The Arbor of Amitie | |