Even in laughter the heart is sorrowfull, and the end of that mirth is heavinesse.
1
Alas fond Child
How are thy thoughts beguil'd,
To hope for Hony from a nest of wasps?
Thou maist as well
Go seek for ease in Hell,
Or sprightly Nectar from the mouthes of Asps.
2
The world's a Hive,
From whence thou canst derive
No good, but what thy soules vexation brings:
Put case thou meet
Some peti-peti-sweet,
Each drop is guarded with a thousand stings.
3
Why dost thou make
These murm'ring Troupes forsake
The safe Protection of their waxen Homes?
This Hive containes
No sweet that's worth thy paines;
There's nothing here, alas, but empty Combes.
4
For trash and Toyes,
And griefe-ingendring Joyes
What torment seemes too sharpe for flesh and blood!
What bitter Pills,
Compos'd of reall Ills,
Man swallowes downe, to purchase one false Good!
5
The dainties here,
Are least what they appeare;
Though sweet in hopes, yet in fruition, sowre:
The fruit that's yellow,
Is found not alwayes mellow,
The fairest Tulip's not the sweetest flowre.
6
Fond youth, give ore,
And vexe thy soule no more,
In seeking, what were better far unfounded;
Alas thy gaines
Are onely present paines
To gather Scorpions for a future wound.
7
What's earth? or in it,
That longer than a minit
Can lend a free delight, that can endure?
O who would droyle
Or delve in such a soyle,
Where gaine's uncertaine, and the paine is sure?
S. AUGUST.
Sweetnesse in temporall matters is deceitfull: It is a labour and a
perpetuall feare; It is a dangerous pleasure, whose beginning is without
providence, and whose end is not without repentance.
HUGO.
Luxury is an enticing pleasure, a bastard mirth, which hath honey in her
mouth, gall in her heart, and a sting in her taile.
